As God Commands (22 page)

He must tidy up at once. He couldn't do anything else while he
knew that the nativity scene was in such a mess.

"But I've got to go round to Danilo's. What am I going to do?"
he said to himself, pinching his cheek.

A minute. It'll only take a minute.

What if Danilo rings me?

He switched off his cell and started tidying up.

"Fabi, listen, I've had a brilliant idea!" Suddenly, as if someone had
pressed PLAY on her remote control, Esmeralda woke up and jumped
off the desk.

"What?"

"Let's play a trick on Carraccio."

"What kind of trick?"

Esmeralda and Fabiana were sure Nuccia Carraccio, their math
teacher, hated them, because she resented the fact that they were
pretty and she was a monster. And as well as never giving them
good marks, they were sure she held black masses with Pozzolini,
the PE teacher, against them.

"Listen, you know the fat boy?"

"Which fat boy?"

"The one in 2C."

"Rinaldi."

"That's him."

Matteo Rinaldi was an unfortunate little lad. He suffered from
a serious pituitary imbalance, and weighed two hundred forty pounds
at the age of twelve. In his fifth year at primary school he had won
a certain notoriety by doing a testimonial for a campaign against
child obesity promoted by the local council.

Fabiana stretched and yawned: "Well, what about him?"

"Ravanelli said he was in the scouts with Rinaldi and that once
Rinaldi crapped in a field. And out of curiosity he went to look at
the turd..." Esmeralda shook her head. "You can't imagine the
size ... He said it was as big as..." She struggled to remember. "...as a packet of precooked polenta. You know what that's like, don't
you?"

"No. I've never seen one. My mother usually makes it herself.
What's it like? Does it taste good?"

"No, not really. You cut it into slices and heat it up in the oven.
The home-made stuff's much better. Anyway..." Esmeralda indicated the size with her hands and then added: "He says it was really
hard, like a torpedo."

"So?„

"We must get Rinaldi to crap on the teacher's desk. On Wednesdays
we have gym just before math. During that lesson we could take
him to the classroom and get him to climb up on the teacher's desk
and crap."

Fabiana laughed scornfully. "What a stupid idea!"

Esmeralda looked at her in disappointment. "Why?"

"How are you going to get Rinaldi to do it?"

Esmeralda hadn't thought about that. Their weapon, seduction,
which bent practically all the males in the school to their will, had
no effect on that sexless lump.

"What if we offered him cash? Or food?" hazarded Esmeralda.

"No, he's got pots of money. I suppose maybe if you gave him a

blow-job..."

Esmeralda made a disgusted expression: "Yuck ... Not even if they
killed me."

Fabiana touched her kidneys with a grimace of pain. "How much
would you charge him for a blow-job?"

"There's no price!"

"A thousand euros?"

"Are you crazy? Too little."

"Three thousand?"

She smiled. "Three thousand. Well, I might consider it..."

It was their favorite game. They spent hours imagining giving
hand-jobs and blow-jobs and letting themselves be sodomized by
the ugliest guys they knew for money.

"Suppose you had to choose between Rinaldi and..." Fabiana
couldn't think of anyone more disgusting, but then had an inspiration: "...the tobacconist in the shopping mall?"

"The one with the toupee stuck on with Velcro?"

"Yes!"

"I don't know ... Neither of them."

"If you don't do it, they'll kill your brother."

"You bastard! That's not fair!"

"Yes it is! Yes it is!"

Esmeralda reflected for a moment. "Well, if I think about it carefully, the tobacconist. At least he might throw in a few packets of
smokes."

"You have to swallow, though."

"Of course, I'd give him the full service... But can you imagine
what it'd be like if we succeeded? Can you imagine Carraccio coming
into class and finding a hot, steaming turd on her desk? As a personal monument, just for her..."

"She calls the carabinieri..."

"And the carabinieri have to requisition it."

"Why?

"It's evidence..."

"But they can't touch it, or they'll leave fingerprints."

Esmeralda burst out laughing. "And they take it to the, er ... To
the... Oh hell, what are they called?"

"Who?"

"The guys who analyze the evidence ... You know ... Them." It
was no good. It wouldn't come. Her head felt like it was full of
foam rubber.

"I don't know... Who do they take it to?"

"Oh you know, those guys in the TV series."

"Forensics?"

"That's it. And they do a DNA test and trace it back to Rinaldi."

He had done it. He had phoned and bought Climbing Clown, the
masterpiece by Moreno Capobianco.

No problem.

Danilo strolled contentedly around the room, looking at the wall
where he would hang the painting.

Fantastic. You entered the room to be met by a climbing clown.
It would give his apartment a touch of unique style and refinement.
A painting of such quality would brighten up a catacomb.

Danilo was holding a glass of grappa.

He had sworn he wouldn't touch a drop till after the raid, but
he couldn't very well not drink to a purchase like this. Perhaps he
had been a little hasty in buying it, but with the guarantee of the
money from the cash machine it had been a good decision.

"A great decision." He raised his glass to the blank wall.

The young lady at the call center had been extremely kind. She
had congratulated him on his choice and had added that Capobianco's
paintings were selling like hot cakes.

If I hadn't called right away I'd certainly have missed out on it.

Danilo had made a no-obligation appointment for the next day.
One of their experts would bring the picture around to his home.

"Here's to a new life!" And he knocked back the grappa.

The young lady had assured him that he would be able to look
at it for as long as he liked and then decide at his leisure. Danilo
hadn't told her, but he had made up his mind to buy it the moment
the figure of the clown had appeared on television.

That painting had spoken to him through the screen.

It was the baptism of Danilo Aprea's new life.

First the picture, and immediately afterward the boutique for
Teresa.

And everything would start over again.

The headlights of Beppe Trecca's Puma lit up a huge sign, in the
shape of a banana, bearing the words CAMPEGGIO BAHAMAS.

Here we are.

The social worker, in a fever of excitement, emerged stooping
from the metal coupe, sheltering under a tiny umbrella, which the
wind promptly turned inside out. He approached the gate, which
was chained up. He pulled out of his raincoat pocket the bunch of
keys for the camper belonging to Ernesto, his cousin's husband.

The key to the gate must be here too.

But he wasn't absolutely sure, because he had...

(stolen)

... borrowed them from the tray by the front door of his cousin
Luisa's apartment, without telling them.

Well, where's the harm? Tomorrow morning I'll put them back
and no one will be any the wiser.

The idea of asking Ernesto if he could borrow his camper for the
night hadn't even crossed his mind, for two reasons:

1) Luisa's husband was as curious as a monkey and would have
discovered everything, and nobody in the whole world must know
about him and Ida Lo Vino. If word got out, he was finished.

2) Ernesto never lent his camper to anyone. He'd sunk himself
up to his neck in debt in order to buy it.

Beppe managed to find the key to the padlock, pushed the gate
and drove his car into the campsite, leaving it open behind him.

The gravel yard on the banks of the Forgese was flooded. The
inky-black river, which usually flowed thirty yards away, had engulfed
the jetty and was lapping at the canoe shed. The palm trees, their
leaves ragged from the winter, were battered by gusts of wind and
rain. The roar of the swollen river was audible even through the
window panes.

A worse night for a romantic rendezvous would be hard to imagine.

The campers and caravans were parked side by side.

Now which of the bloody things is Ernesto's?

Beppe remembered it was called something like Rimmel. Finally,
right at the end of the row, he saw a big white beast with the name
plate "Rimor SuperDuca 688TC."

There it is.

It was inside that vehicle that the dreadful act of betrayal would
be performed. Yes, for as Beppe was well aware, what he was about
to commit was a dastardly deed, an assault on the integrity of a family.
Poor Mario really didn't deserve such treachery from his best friend.

(Forget the whole idea. Turn back. Mario welcomed you into his
home like a brother. He loves his wife dearly and he trusts you.)

He parked the car, trying not to listen to the voice of his conscience.

(Ida would certainly be grateful to you, too.)

Beppe sighed, turning off the engine.

I'm a shit. I know I am. I wish I could do it, but I can't... Maybe
I'll break it off after I've had her. But I can't go on living like this,
I must have her at least once.

He got out of the car and walked around the camper, pulling a
blue suitcase along between the puddles.

After a couple of attempts the door opened, and with a mixture
of excitement and shame the social worker climbed the steps and
entered, as a flash of lightning bathed the dinette and the mini-sofa
in pale blue light.

Cristiano Zena was woken up by a clap of thunder so loud that for
a moment he thought a tanker had exploded on the highway.

He felt some cushions, the back of a seat, and realized he was
on the sofa. He had fallen asleep while they had been watching the
Al Pacino film.

It was pitch black. The rain was beating on the window panes
and the gate in the yard was rattling in the wind.

"Don't worry, Cri. It's only a power cut."

Cristiano could barely make out the features of his father's face,
tinged red by the ash of his cigarette.

"There's one hell of a thunderstorm. Go to bed."

"What's the time?"

"I don't know. About eleven thirty."

Cristiano yawned. "How are you going to get the tractor? The
riverside road will be a sea of mud."

"Sure," replied Rino calmly.

Cristiano was about to ask if he could go too, but checked himself. He knew what the answer would be. "But isn't it late?" he
asked, finally.

"Maybe."

"What's the matter? Don't you want to do it any more?"

His father breathed out through his nose. Silence. Then: "No."

"Why not?"

"I've had second thoughts."

"Why?"

"It's too dangerous."

Cristiano didn't know whether to be pleased or not. With the
money they could have bought a lot of things, got a new car, had
a better life, travelled. On the other hand the raid had always worried him a little. All in all, it was better like this. With hindsight,
he had always sensed that his father's heart wasn't in it.

Cristiano sat up and crossed his legs. "What are you going to
say to Danilo?"

"I've got a headache. Go to bed." Rino was beginning to get irritated. As if his son was prodding at an open wound. Cristiano knew
he should drop the matter, but it really irritated him that his father
never kept his promises. Like when he'd said he would give him a
PlayStation for Christmas.

"But you promised him."

"Who cares?"

"Danilo will hate you."

"No problem. He can do it with someone else if he likes. Not
with me."

"Yes, but you're their leader. They can't do it on their own, you
know that. You can't let them down like this." As he talked, Cristiano
wondered why the hell he kept going on about it if he was pleased
his father had decided to drop out.

Rino started to shout: "Listen to me, you little brat. Get this
into your head: I'm nobody's leader, least of all theirs. Besides, I've
got a son, unlike them. I'm not risking that for a bit of loose change.
End of discussion."

The light came back on. The television started up again. In the
kitchen the fridge started to buzz.

Cristiano screwed up his eyes. "When are you going to tell him?"

Rino opened a can of beer and took a swig from it. Then, wiping
his mouth with his arm, he replied: "Now. When they get here. You
go to bed. I don't want to fight in front of you. Move."

Cristiano was on the point of retorting that it wasn't fair, that
he'd always been present at their meetings and he ought to be present
now, but he bit his tongue.

"Shit..." He got up and went toward the stairs without saying
goodnight.

You could hear everything upstairs anyway.

Inside the camper there was a horrible smell.

It wasn't just the damp, it was something much worse, something
disgusting ... Something to do with human excrement and chemical
toilets.

Beppe Trecca groped around on the walls, searching for a light
switch.

The previous summer he had ridden in this thing when they had
taken a trip to the monastery of San Giovanni Rotondo, but he'd
been car-sick all the way.

Finally, behind a cupboard, he found some switches and started
to press them at random.

The neon lights on the ceiling and the spotlights over the sink lit
up, spreading a cold light.

In front of him was a narrow space lined with wall units covered
with beige formica, the day area with a little table and the sofa, and
above the driver's cab the sleeping area with a double bed.

With one hand over his mouth he opened the toilet door. It was
like getting a punch in the face. The social worker turned purple,
dazed by the stink, and had to lean against a partition to stop himself collapsing on the light-blue carpet.