Cabaret (14 page)

“They say he has already undergone plastic surgery,” said his neighbor, a woman with a magnificent hairy wart on one cheek.

“Yes, I’ve seen him,” said a security guard. “He’s been stretched and is now twice the size he was.”

“The police are searching for a long thin man with severe stretch marks.”

“Of course, the dummy isn’t really a dummy at all.”

“He’s a spy wanted by Interpol.”

I listened in a halfhearted way. It was quite a coincidence.

The person they were talking about could almost have been Alberto. But of course it wasn’t. Alberto wasn’t wanted by the police. He certainly wasn’t on the run. And, of course, Malco was a dummy—he lived in a suitcase under my bed—

I ought to know.

Eventually, as those ahead of me got served, I reached the front of the line.

“I’d like to withdraw some cash,” I said to the teller, handing her a check. She took one look at my name and sucked in her lips. Then she pressed the panic button under the desk.

The manager came forward to the bulletproof glass, and he and the teller whispered something to each other. Then, the security guard seized my arm and I was propelled toward an office, where the manager soon appeared. Various members of the staff squeezed in behind him, together with some of the customers, a newspaper vendor, and a man with a tray of coffee cups. They stood in a line looking at me as if I were an exhibit.

“What is going on?” I demanded.

“Signora Lippi, you must be aware that your husband has absconded owing several millions to the bank?”

“Nonsense,” I snapped, “Alberto Lippi [I couldn’t bring myself to refer to him as ‘my husband’] has been abducted.

How can he owe you several millions?”

“The matter is in the hands of the police. If you are shielding him, you can expect to reap the consequences.Your bank account has been frozen.”

“Brini,” he said to the security guard, “please escort Signora Lippi off the premises. I will be right behind you, and if there is any trouble, rest assured, the police will be called.”

“Just a minute—” I spluttered, but it was pointless. The guard seized my arm for the second time, and at a rapid pace I was ejected from the building like a common criminal, before I could say or do anything.

I was shaking with rage and mortification, and had to sit down on a bench to calm myself. They were telling me Alberto was a fugitive from justice, and owed the bank millions.

I just couldn’t believe it.The Detective said Alberto had been seized.Why would he say that if it wasn’t true? Now my bank account had been frozen. Mine! And I had only a few coins left in my purse. How would I pay the reward money for Pierino?

People are so ruthless.There would be no charity. I didn’t like to think what would happen to Pierino if I couldn’t pay. Although I had never borrowed a cent in my life, I would have to ask Signora Dorotea for a loan.

I just didn’t know what to think anymore. Admittedly, despite having been married to him for three years, I didn’t know Alberto very well. Were he and this bandit one and the same?

I started walking. I thought I shouldn’t waste money by taking a taxi; besides, I didn’t have the cash to pay for one. As I walked, I thought everything over. I rummaged through the past looking for clues, signs, any hint at all that Alberto had been living a double life. Although nothing struck me as suspicious, I had to conclude that anything was possible. Those months when I thought he was away at sea he could have been up to all sorts of villainy. Only the dummy would know for sure, but I was certain he wouldn’t tell me anything.

When I turned into the Via dei Cappellari, I was shocked to see a line waiting outside my building, circling the block.

There were a few policemen keeping order, and an enterpris-ing soul was selling ice cream and cool drinks from a cart. As I got closer I recognized Cremoso, Fiamma’s suitor from all those years ago. He flashed me his dazzling one-tooth smile and offered me a cone, which I declined. I saw then that the people in the queue were holding boxes, cages, and baskets.

My heart performed a somersault. Maybe one of them had found Pierino.

I hadn’t put my address on the flyer, quite deliberately, because of the numbers of perverts at large in the city, but somehow these people had found me anyway. I started with the first man, who was waiting patiently on the top step with an enormous cage covered by a patterned cloth.

“Have you found my parrot?” I asked him.

“It depends on how much you’re prepared to pay for him,” came his reply.

“I’ll pay what’s fair,” I said. “First show me the bird.” Carefully he drew back the cover. At first I couldn’t see anything in there. No bright blue feathers certainly. There was, however, something lying in the bottom of the cage.Was my Pierino ill? Hurt? I bent down and peered in, but it wasn’t my parrot. It was a small rodent.

“Is this some kind of a joke?” I demanded. “I advertised for a parrot, not a rat.”

“It’s not a rat,” said the man indignantly. “It’s a hamster.

And it can talk. Come on, Nino, say something.”

“I will not,” said the hamster archly. It had a deep voice, quite unlike the squeaky tone you might have expected.

“Fancy that,” said the man second behind in the line, “a talking hamster; who’d have believed it, eh? How much do you want for him?”

“Fifty.”

“I’ll give you thirty.”

“Forty, then.”

“Done.”

I felt suddenly redundant. I walked along the line looking for people with birdcages.

“Has anyone here got a parrot?” I asked loudly. “A real parrot, blue in color, answers to the name of Pierino.” A chorus of voices answered me, but my hopes were not high. After examining the contents of many cages, shoe boxes, egg boxes, jam jars, and paper bags, I counted eleven goldfish, seven performing rabbits, a Barbary ape, a singing centipede, a tap-dancing frog, four dogs with varying talents, a duck, and a snake. There was not one parrot among them.

Eventually, I lost hope. I could see they were a bunch of hustlers, out to make easy money by praying on people’s mis-fortunes. I left them waiting there and locked myself in my apartment, from where I could still hear the barking and quacking and tap-dancing.

T
he first thing I did was to call the Detective. I had to know the truth about Alberto. Had he been seized? Or had he absconded? Was he a thief? Had I been duped, and made to look a fool?

As I waited for the Detective to answer, I became conscious of feeling hot and shivery. Soon I would hear his deep voice breathing “Balbini” into my ear. Except I didn’t. After it rang for ages, his subordinate picked it up. He told me the Detective had just gone off duty, but would return my call in the morning. In the morning? I looked at my watch and was stunned to see it was already seven—where had the whole day gone?

Without the answers to these questions, I knew I would be in a lather all night. I strode into the bedroom ready to interrogate the dummy, but the case was empty. Now he too had gone. Suppose he wasn’t really a dummy after all, but a midget, Alberto’s accomplice? The idea was absurd, but so many ridiculous things were going on, maybe it wasn’t that implausible after all.When I thought of all that Malco had witnessed between Alberto and me, it made my toes curl up. A third one in our marriage, he had always been there, right from the start. Though, to be more accurate, they were the couple, and I was the outsider.

I needed to speak to somebody, so I called Signora Dorotea.

“Freda, I’ve been worried about you,” she said. “I thought you were coming in this afternoon. I’ve had two murders, a suicide, an industrial decapitation, a road traffic accident, and seven natural causes to deal with.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have had the weirdest day,” and I explained everything that had happened.

“It must be a mistake,” she said reassuringly. “Alberto a bank robber! Never. He’s far too stupid. Now, don’t worry yourself about the money. There’s any amount here for you; you only have to say the word.”

I felt a bit better after speaking to Signora Dorotea. Over the years I suppose she had become almost a second mother to me.

Before long the phone rang. I was wary of answering in case it was a crazy person trying to sell me an imaginary parrot. I almost missed having Signor Tontini scream at me to answer it.

When I picked it up, it was Fiamma. “You’re coming to a Lebanese Cultural and Chinese Trade evening. I’ve sent the car over for you. It will be there in ten minutes.”

“Oh, no, not tonight,” I said. “Some other time I’d love to…” but she had already hung up.

This wasn’t the first time I had been invited to one of Fiamma’s official functions. They were usually terribly boring. I think she did it to assuage her guilt about not seeing me enough, but of course while she was presiding over these banquets, she never had time to talk to me anyway.

If Pesco was on his way, I supposed I would have to go, although it was the last thing I felt like doing. Still, if I got the opportunity, I could try to consult with Fiamma about Alberto. Maybe she could pull a few strings in the Secret Service and find out just what was going on.

Before I even had time to pull a comb through my hair, I saw the limousine squeeze into my street and pull up in front of the Belbo Forno. I fought my way through the crowd outside which had swelled to include a gypsy band offering a mule, a brightly colored iguana, and a piglet.

Fiamma and Polibio had long since left the apartment in the Via della Lupo. Now they occupied a palazzo in the Via del Corso that went with Fiamma’s job. They lived in the lap of luxury amid marble corridors; state rooms adorned with fres-coes, gold leaf, and giant candelabra; and, naturally, a retinue of servants on call at all hours.

Pesco, whose mother was having the customary trouble with her hemorrhoids, dropped me off at the kiosk outside the palace, where I was frisked by a security agent.

“She’s clear,” he said into a walkie-talkie, whereupon a di-sheveled maid with wild eyes and a pair of powerful calves swung open the great front door.

First to greet me was Polibio junior, now aged three, who was wearing a top hat, and a flowing cloak over his pajamas.

Although I had only just arrived, his greatest wish was to make me disappear, but his elementary magic kit couldn’t rise to the challenge.The child was frighteningly like his father, inheriting along with his love of conjuring tricks and bad jokes, a craving for pickles.

Polibio senior then appeared and handed me a glass of his rum punch, which gave off a vapor like smoke. Suspecting one of his pranks, I looked for somewhere to pour it.

In the grandest reception room, admiring the objets d’art, was a tall man who had his back to me. When he turned around, I found myself face-to-face with the Detective. I gasped, and dropped my glass, which shattered on the mosaic floor. Some of its contents landed on my foot and I could feel burning.

“Well, Max, you certainly made an impression on her!” said Polibio, pinching my cheek, and then poking his finger in my ear.

Max!
What funny business was going on here? Immediately the maid appeared, handed me another glass of the smoking punch, and cleared away all traces of the one I had just dropped.

“Freda Lippi, my old friend Max Calderone; Max, Freda, Freda, Max.” Polibio gave an obvious wink and nudge to his

“friend” and ostentatiously withdrew from the room, leaving the two of us together.

“What’s going on?” I whispered. “What are you doing here? Why are you using an alias?” He put his finger to his lips, urging me to silence, but I needed answers.

“Is it true that Alberto is a fugitive from justice and owes millions to the bank?”

“Are you aware your shoe is melting?” he countered, and it was true, the patent leather was curling up and dying a painful death.

Fiamma buzzed in, between urgent phone calls, to greet us.

“Max, how good to see you again. It’s been a long time.” She kissed him on either cheek. She was playing her part well.

“Fredina—dressed ready for a funeral, I see. We’re just waiting for a few others.The prime minister can’t make it, but the Lebanese cultural attaché and the Chinese trade delegation will be here shortly.”

Immediately, Fiamma’s secretary came to summon her, and she hurried out again.

“Is it true?” I hissed at the Detective. “I have to know.” He pulled his earlobe, and then gestured toward the open door. I didn’t know what was going on, but I was getting more and more frustrated. Why wouldn’t he answer me?

“Is the dummy wanted by Interpol?” I insisted.

“Charming room,” he said, helping himself to a glass of the noxious punch. Without thinking, I tipped mine into the pot containing the massive rubber plant that had been in Polibio’s family for five generations. It was a big mistake. The soil hissed and bubbled, and I watched in horror as the leaves at the bottom began to wither; then the next layer up did the same. The contagion spread through the trunk and along the branches. In a matter of seconds all that was left was a smoking skeleton and a pile of dead leaves.

The Detective nodded to the long damask drapes framing the windows, and together we took hold of the massive pot and dragged it where it would be hidden from view. On our hands and knees we gathered up the fallen leaves. There were hundreds of them, and they were so hot they burned my hands. At this point there was the sound of a squeaky wheel, footsteps, and incomprehensible chattering in the foyer. The luminaries were on their way.

I opened my bag, and frantically we thrust the leaves inside. Thankfully I had brought the big one with fifteen com-partments (“for the woman who likes to be organized,” as it said in the advertisement). I had never liked it. We were just getting up from the floor when Polibio rode in on his unicycle. Following behind him were the foreign dignitaries, the si-multaneous translators, and the senior civil servants.

“Hello, hello,” he said, dismounting and handing the cycle to the maid. “At it already? Now, gentlemen, here’s that card trick I promised you…”

Polibio was a buffoon. Already I was feeling much less bad about the rubber plant.