Cabaret (16 page)

In order to get on with my life, I had to know that Alberto wouldn’t be coming back. If I could be sure he had been disappeared, and was now forming the foundations of some multistory parking garage or
autostrada
on stilts, I could stop worrying. Did that make me callous? Possibly. But as you know, ours was no love match, and I couldn’t spend the rest of my life trying to make sense of his disappearance.

In the Piazza dei Cinquecento, in front of the “
dinosauro,
” I spotted an unpleasant individual with a festering scar on his cheek, and a checkered cap that I thought marked him out as a member of a gang.

I approached him cautiously.

“Have you seen the ventriloquist?” I began.

He narrowed his eyes and exhaled a slow plume of smoke. “I saw a puppet show once when I was a kid. Why?”

“I mean the short, fat man. Do you know anything?”

“Let’s see,” he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. “Is he this short?” And he gestured with his hand the exact height of Alberto.

“Yes!”

“And is he, say, this fat?” He held his hands out wide and jiggled them up and down.

“Yes!” I said again, feeling I was getting somewhere.

“That’s right.”

“Never seen him,” and with that he sidled away, eyeing me like a maniac.

Deflated, I walked on looking for someone who looked dangerous, but at the same time, sensible. It wasn’t easy—the two didn’t seem to go together. I discounted a man surrounded by a swarm of bluebottles, an accordion player with a vicious-looking monkey, and a bogus priest—one of the thousands that thronged the city—who was brandishing a machete. Finally I approached a man in a dark suit with a violin case and bandy legs.

“I’m seeking information on a short, fat ventriloquist called Alberto Lippi,” I said.

“I’m sorry, I’m late for a recital,” he replied, and hurried away in the direction of the Teatro dell’ Opera.

“Can you tell me anything about the short, fat man?” I asked a greasy man with a liver-colored dog.

“Yes,” he said. “A flying saucer took him away, and now he’s the leader of the aliens.”

It was hopeless. I wasn’t getting anywhere. I suppose I had been foolish even to try. Still, it was time for me to head to the Berenice for my first night in the cloakroom. If I kept my eyes and ears open, I might yet learn something useful.

T
he Berenice club was in the Via Vittoria, sandwiched between the taxidermist (to my overwhelming relief there were no parrots on display) and the surgical corset makers (satisfaction guaranteed). It was down in a basement reached by narrow steps, above which hung a blinking blue lantern. The air outside had the reek of a public urinal, the sidewalk was smeared with dis-gusting detritus, and in the gutter lay a drunk sighing, “Mona, Mona,” between bursts of anguished groaning.

A number of shy and spotty seminarians clustered around the entrance, trying to summon up the courage to go inside.

The door was blocked by a hulking man in a too-tight suit. His neck was wider than his head, and his bottom lip protruded as though it wanted no part of him.

“I have an appointment with Signor Mormile,” I said to the hulk.

His lump of a lip flexed to show acknowledgment, and he moved slightly, ever so slightly, to one side, but not enough to allow me to get past him easily. I had to squeeze through the tiny gap that remained between where he finished and the doorframe began, and his body and mine seemed to combine intimately in the time it took.

Inside the club it was dark and dirty. The air was weighted down by stale cigarette smoke, and I recognized the sick smell of rotting meat emanating from what I presume was the kitchen. My feet stuck to the floor, and the soles were almost torn from my shoes as I attempted to walk.This was the third pair I had ruined in less than a week. The red flock wallpaper was badly worn, and the portrait of the club’s founder, the stocky Berenice, hung at a drunken angle and had been adorned with a beard, mustache, and spectacles. It was a very different establishment from the ones where Mamma used to work.

Music was playing, and heading toward it, I ducked through a beaded curtain into the saloon itself. A spotlight came on, illuminating a figure in a tight red dress standing on a small stage at the back of the room. At first glance it seemed to be a woman, but one with the body of a man. Her shoulders were too wide, her neck too thick, and her hands and feet were enormous.There was a ripple of applause as she was introduced as “Miss Olga Mollica.” She began to sing, “Sempre Tu,” and I have to say she had a good voice, even if it was rather deep.

I stumbled around the room looking for Dario Mormile.

It was so dark that I could make out only the glowing ends of many cigarettes. I could vaguely detect figures moving about, and as my eyes adjusted I saw they were dancing. There must have been a shortage of women, because the couples were mostly men dancing together. There were a number of tables dotted about with figures seated at them.Two men seemed to be having an argument, although not much could be heard above the sound of Miss Mollica and the band. The blade of a knife flashed a gleam of light, and one of the men ran out holding a handkerchief to his cheek.

“Dance?” drooled a voice in my ear, but luckily the owner of the voice then fell down in a heap at my feet. I stepped over him and made for the exit. Too late though. Before I could make my escape, I saw Mormile coming toward me.

“I think I’ll go,” I said, trying to smile.

He came up close. Too close, and placed his hand on my neck. For one horrible moment I thought he was going to kiss me.

“I need you, Freda,” he said in a low voice. I felt his breath on my face, and it smelled like a sneaker. “I can’t rely on any of the others. They’re all leaving me. Walking out. Rats leaving a sinking ship. There for the good times, but when times are hard, they’re out the door. But you, Freda, you ain’t like the other girls.” Here his hand began to stray round to the nape of my neck, and toy with my hair. “You want to help Dario, don’t you, Freda?”

I didn’t, but I didn’t know how to say so. I had always felt bad about saying no.

“Terrific,” he said, interpreting my momentary silence as affirmation. “Here’s what you do…” He took me by the hand and led me to a filthy booth at the end of the corridor that was equipped with a rail of coat hangers, an artificial geranium, and a book of raffle tickets.

As he sidled away, rubbing himself against his own flock wall paper (perhaps he alone was responsible for the wear and tear), he turned and called back:

“You sing, Freda?”

I shook my head quickly.

“Good girl,” he said with a wink.

The doorman walked past with the neck of the drunken dancer in his hand, swinging him like a chicken. I stood awkwardly in the booth trying not to breathe too much because of the stench, thinking—as I had on my wedding night—

“What on earth am I doing here?” A few customers filtered through. Mechanically I took their hats and issued them with tickets. When Uncle Birillo came in with a lady in pink, we both got the shock of our lives.

“Office party,” he said quickly by way of explanation, handing me his fedora.

“Shall I keep the stole and the hat together?” I asked, like a real cloakroom attendant.

“Oh, we’re not together,” he replied, sounding shocked at my mistake. “Oh, no. I’ve never seen this lady before,” and with that he snatched up his ticket and strode into the saloon alone.

Poor Uncle Birillo. He always worked such long hours.

Even his evenings were spent with clients and colleagues.The Goloso Gas and Oil Company seemed to own him, body and soul.

“I
f I could only be sure Alberto was dead,” I confided to Signora Dorotea the following morning as I sculpted a nose out of wax for Signora Agnello (her own had been eaten by a goat as she lay dying);

“then I could get on with my life. It’s not knowing that’s driving me crazy.”

“Leave it to me, Freda,” she replied with a wink. “I’ll put out word to the Guild and see if somebody can help us. Who knows? One of the brethren could have buried him.” With that she bustled into her office, applied her pince-nez to her nose, and consulted the sacred leather-bound ledger that she kept locked in the safe.

The Guild was, of course, the secretive society formed by the city’s undertakers. Membership was fiercely guarded, and now and again was passed down strictly along family lines. Signora Dorotea was, naturally, high up in the Guild, reflecting her unparalleled pedigree in the business. She had held every office in her time, including Grand Mistress (twice), and she took her duties seriously, attending every conclave and convocation, to which she wore a blue cape embroidered with moons and stars, a jeweled turban, and carried a miniature trowel.

She spent most of the morning on the phone, while I finished crafting the nose, glued it on, and then finished Signora Agnello’s makeup and hairdo. When we returned from a quick lunch at Pirillo’s (
penne alla carbonara, pollo in padella,
fragole
), there was a message waiting, the contents of which Signora Dorotea announced jubilantly to me:

“The Buco twins in Salario may have him in their cold storage. They’re burying him at five, so there’s no time to lose.”

With that we grabbed our purses, ran out into the Corso, and hailed a taxi.

Inexplicably the driver seemed determined to take us on a scenic tour of the city. He made a detour past the Trevi Fountain, and when he asked whether we would like to take in the Spanish Steps, Signora Dorotea took from her bag her ornamental trowel and hit him sharply on the head with it.

“Take us straight to the Via Ombrone,” she hissed, “and no more monkey business.”

At four-twenty-seven we leapt out of the taxi in front of the
portone
that led to the Buco’s premises.

“Now, Freda,” said Signora Dorotea, taking hold of my arm, “there’s one thing you’ve got to be prepared for before we go in.” She paused for effect and her eyes bulged. “The head’s missing.”

Although it is true to say that I had tried to look at Alberto’s body as little as possible during our marriage, yet I was still hopeful of making a positive identification of it.

We let ourselves through the doorway, and walked down the cobbled alleyway to the workshop at the rear.The heaps of rubbish in the yard, scrap metal, broken bottles, old boots, decaying sacks; the battered hearse; the flea-bitten nag with a faded black plume still set in his mane; the carriage with its axel broken; the pitiful mongrel chained in a corner; the feral cat searching for scraps among the ruins. All showed that this establishment was at the other end of the scale from the Onoranze Funebri Pompi.

At our approach, the twins (who were completely identical, down to their bushy black beards, protruding teeth, and nervous blinking) hurried out to greet us, rubbing the grease from their hands on their aprons and smoothing down their hair as though they were being presented to royalty.

Signora Dorotea made the elaborate bow, the sequence of footsteps, and the special two-handed handshake that Guild members customarily exchange, and did what she could to put the brothers at their ease.

“Now, my lads,” she said, as they led us inside with much bowing and signaling of trowels that all three had taken out,

“what information do you have on this poor headless fellow?”

“Not much,” replied the twins in unison.

“He was left outside last night,” said one.

“No sign of the head,” said the other.

“Wearing funny clothes, he was.”

“That’s right, like some kind of a fancy dress costume.” At this Signora Dorotea and I exchanged hopeful glances.

By this point we had arrived at what passed here for cold storage facilities. In reality it was an antiquated chest freezer with

“Angelini Gelati,” stenciled on the outside in faded gold letters.

The twins threw open the lid, exposing the headless body to view. It was a little squashed up, there not being sufficient room inside the freezer for it to lie out flat.The most striking thing about it was that it was covered with a thick matting of dark hair, like a coconut. Also it was muscular, not fat and flabby, although the height was about right. Details like the tattoo on the right forearm of a broken heart with “Cune-gonda” written above, the size of the feet (enormous), and the scar from an old bullet wound on the left side of the belly: all confirmed my initial feeling that this was not Alberto. It was a bitter blow.

I shook my head and turned away.

We refused the twins’ kind offer of an ice-cream, thanked them for their help and their time, and after another ritual of parting, we left them.

“Don’t be downhearted,
bella
,” said the signora, patting my hand as we sat in the taxi in the jam at the Piazza Fiume.

“You never know what tomorrow may bring.” But it was hard for me to feel optimistic.

T
hat evening, despite the disappointment of the afternoon, I returned to Berenice’s, which, I was to see in retrospect, was a big mistake. I didn’t want to go back, and had told myself I wouldn’t, but stupidly, very stupidly, I felt I couldn’t let Mormile down.

The club was busier than the previous night, and there was a procession of customers checking things at the booth.

And they weren’t just hats either.The space I had available was soon filled with items I wouldn’t have expected people to take with them to a cabaret club. I issued tickets on a garden spade, a mannequin dressed in a fur coat, an urn of ashes bearing a plaque that read, “Fingers,” and a live lobster with its claws bound by rubber bands.

I was in the process of trying to arrange this stuff in the tiny space, and had to keep getting it out and repacking it in a way that I thought was better, when I turned to find Dario Mormile right behind me. I jumped. I was shocked by his appearance. His left ear was heavily bandaged this time, and his arm was in a sling. He bore the look of a man in a state of desperation, and his bloodshot eyes betrayed a fear that made me feel almost sorry for him.