The Crossroads (9 page)

At least Zena wouldn't show his face round there again. Something advised him not to mobilise lawyers and make official complaints, but to overlook what had occurred and keep out of his way.

But there was someone else who was going to have to pay. That stupid bitch of a secretary hadn't warned him of Zena's arrival, and hadn't even taken the trouble to call the police.

He lifted the telephone, pressed a button and said in a quavering voice: ‘Mrs Pirro, could you come here, please?' He hung up and straightened the knot of his tie.

For weeks he had been looking for an excuse to get rid of the old bat. Well, she had presented him with one on a silver salver.

Cristiano paused for a moment. It was as if he had opened a tap and the words had gushed out. He hadn't said much about how the Nazis had seized power because he couldn't remember the dates. The essay was a bit on the short side, too, but there was only a quarter of an hour left before they had to hand their work in and he still had to make a fair copy.

While Rino was talking to Max Marchetta, Quattro Formaggi had slipped away from Danilo and gone to the personnel office.

He had looked in through the window. Sitting at her desk was Liliana Lotti.

For a while Quattro Formaggi stood there looking at her, knowing he himself was unobserved. She was a bit plump, but she was beautiful. Not at first sight. You had to look carefully and then you discovered that her beauty was hidden beneath her fat. She kept it covered as grasshoppers do with their colourful wings.

Besides, he and Liliana had a lot of things in common. They weren't married. They lived alone. And they both loved pizza (though her favourite was the Napolitana). She had a little dog. He had two turtles.

He often saw her at San Biagio, at the six o'clock mass. When they exchanged the sign of peace she would smile at him. And once, a few days before Christmas, he had met her in the high street carrying a lot of plastic bags.

‘Corrado!' she had called out.

No one ever called him Corrado, so it had been a few moments before Quattro Formaggi had realised she was talking to him.

‘How are you?'

He had straightened his glasses and thumped himself on the thigh. ‘Very well, thank you.'

‘I've been buying the usual presents for my relatives …' Liliana had opened the bags, full of brightly coloured parcels. ‘How about you? Are you giving any presents?'

Quattro Formaggi had shrugged.

‘Look what I've bought … But this one's for me.' Out of one plastic bag she had taken a statuette of a fishmonger standing behind a market stall covered with octopus, mussels and silvery fish. ‘This year I took my crib out of the cellar. And I thought it needed a new character.'

Quattro Formaggi had turned it over in his hands, astonished.

‘Do you like it?'

‘Yes. It's beautiful.' He wanted to tell her that he had a crib too, but supposing she asked to see it? He couldn't let her into the flat.

‘Listen, why don't you take it? As a Christmas present from me. I know, I really should wrap it up …'

Quattro Formaggi had felt his face flush with embarrassment. ‘I can't …'

‘Please take it. I'd be so happy.'

In the end he had accepted it. He had put it beside one of the lakes in his crib. He considered it, together with the Barbapapa, the finest piece in the whole scene.

If now, for example, he were to enter the office and greet her, he was sure Liliana would be pleased. The problem was that he found it impossible to speak to her. As soon as he came anywhere near her the words dried up.

Quattro Formaggi gave himself a thump on the leg and a slap on the neck, summoned up his courage and grasped the handle of the door, but then he saw her answer the phone and start fiddling with a large envelope full of papers.

Some other time.

Danilo Aprea, leaning against the van, saw Rino come striding out of the prefabricated building. From his manner it was clear that he was furious. He must have found out that they had been dumped.

Danilo had known for a couple of days that Marchetta's son didn't want them, but had kept the news to himself.

He had heard it from Duccio, one of the old team, who had also been ditched.

But that job with Euroedil was a serious problem. It would have gone on for a month, if not longer. And Rino, who wasn't really that keen on the bank raid, would have dropped out as soon as he had the money in his pocket; and if he had dropped out, Quattro Formaggi would have followed suit.

It was madness to slog your guts out for others when you had a foolproof plan for making a million.

At the moment, however, Rino was too angry; this wasn't the time to discuss the raid with him. Like a pressure cooker: he needed to have his steam let out before you opened him up.

Danilo had a two-and-a-half litre bottle of grappa in his bag. The perfect extinguisher for spitting rages and similar complaints.

‘Let's go. Come on. Get in.' Rino climbed into the Ducato and turned on the engine.

Danilo and Quattro Formaggi obeyed without a word.

The van moved off, raising a spray of mud, and shot out onto the road without stopping at the give-way line.

‘What happened?' asked Quattro Formaggi hesitantly.

Rino stared at the road, his jaw quivering. ‘We've finished with that dump.' Then he went on: ‘I should have killed him, but … Why didn't I? What the fuck's got into me lately?'

‘… for Cristiano's sake,' Quattro Formaggi prompted him.

Rino swallowed, squeezing the steering wheel as if he was trying to snap it. His eyes were glistening, as though he had put them too close to a flame.

‘Yes, that's it. I held back for Cristiano's sake.'

Danilo realised that this was the moment to produce the extinguisher. He opened his battered old bag and pulled out the bottle.
‘Surprise, surprise!' He unscrewed the top and waved the grappa in front of Rino's nose.

‘If it wasn't for you two …' Rino was overcome by emotion and couldn't finish the sentence. He opened his mouth and gulped in air. ‘Give it here.' He took a good swig. ‘Shit, what hooch! It tastes like turpentine. Where did you get it, the DIY store?'

The three of them passed it around in silence. None of them was thinking about where they were going. On either side, beyond the rows of skeletal trees, the fields of black earth ran by, with their rows of high-tension pylons resembling little Eiffel Towers.

Suddenly Rino started chuckling.

‘What's so funny?' asked Quattro Formaggi.

‘That prick Marchetta. He had some of those whitening strips on his teeth. Like the ones in the TV adverts. He swallowed one of them …'

All three of them starting roaring with laughter and thumping the dashboard of the van.

The alcohol was finally taking effect.

Rino dried away his tears. ‘Hey, weren't we supposed to be finishing the work on your tractor?'

Danilo sat up abruptly. ‘Damn right we were! The only thing missing is the ram.'

Rino switched on the radio, did a U-turn and headed back towards the village. ‘Okay, but first we'll go and pick up Cristiano. We'll surprise him!'

Cristiano quickly re-read the essay.

It was good. Pretty damn good.

He took a clean sheet of paper and was about to start writing out the fair copy, when a doubt crossed his mind. He stopped. He read it through again more carefully.

No, he couldn't hand it in. That commie bitch his teacher would show it to the social worker.

Doubtfully he read it through yet again, gnawing at the end of his pen.

Why land yourself in the shit for the sake of a stupid essay? It's
a pity, though, it was really very good
.

He carefully folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.

‘What's up?' asked Colizzi, who had handed in his own essay half an hour since and was doing a cryptic crossword.

‘Nothing. I'm not handing it in.'

‘You see? You should have let me do it for you.' said Colizzi.

Cristiano didn't even bother to reply. He rested his chin on the desk and looked out of the window. He was astonished.

On the other side of the lawn, where the downward slope began, were his father, Danilo and Quattro Formaggi. They were sitting on a bench, looking perfectly relaxed, with their legs stretched out in front of them, as they passed around a bottle of grappa.

Cristiano was about to wave to them, but restrained himself and glanced at the clock above the teacher's desk. Only seven minutes to go to the bell.

If only he had a mobile phone … He grabbed Colizzi's fingers and gently squeezed. ‘Give me your mobile,' he whispered.

‘I can't. Please, my mother checks it every evening. She'll kill me if I make a call.'

Cristiano squeezed a little harder. ‘You'd better hand it over.'

Colizzi grimaced and stifled a yelp. ‘Be quick, though. And call a TIM number if you can. I've got the Horizon special offer.'

Cristiano took the phone and rang his father. He saw him pat the pockets of his jacket and take out his own mobile.

‘Hello?'

‘Papa! What are you doing here?'

‘When do you finish?' Rino turned towards the school, spotted
Cristiano behind the window and pointed him out to the other two, who started waving.

‘In five minutes.'

‘We'll be waiting for you.'

Cristiano burst out laughing.

Those idiots out there had started dancing. They were doing a conga round the bench.

The Ducato bumped along the little road dotted with puddles and white stones which followed the bank of the Forgese. Reeds and brambles scraped against the sides of the van.

The sky was grey, but the rain had stopped.

Cristiano Zena was squeezed in between his father, who had his feet up against the windscreen and was smoking as he gazed blankly at the road ahead, and Danilo, who was mechanically clicking his mobile on and off. Quattro Formaggi was driving.

When they hit the bottle too hard it was always Quattro Formaggi who drove. Today they had started drinking earlier than usual; usually they didn't reach that state till mid-afternoon.

Cristiano guessed there had been a problem at the construction firm. The previous day Rino had told him they were going to start a job, yet here they were …

But if they didn't volunteer any information it was better not to ask.

He looked at Quattro Formaggi. Alcohol had no effect on him. According to Rino it was because of the electric shock. Whatever the reason, Cristiano had never once seen him drunk.

He adored Quattro Formaggi.

With him you didn't need to speak to make yourself understood. And it wasn't true that he was stupid. If he didn't say much it was because the electricity had affected his speech. But he was attentive: he listened to everything that was said and made strange movements with his head as if he was conducting the conversation.

Cristiano would spend whole days with him. They would watch TV and ride around on the Boxer. Quattro Formaggi was a skilled mechanic and could get even the rustiest old banger working again. And if you needed anything or asked him for a lift, even if you wanted to go to the back of beyond, he never said no.

Sure, he was strange, with all those tics and his manias, like his thing about never letting anyone into his flat. Cristiano could have killed all the bastards who made fun of him. There were even rumours that he kept his mother's corpse in his home and claimed she was still alive so he could draw her pension. But that was bullshit.