The Fallen (11 page)

Salvatore Varone, sitting on a nearby bench, said to the police clerk at his side: “Do you know this tale he’s telling?”

“Of course I do,” the clerk said. “We heard it when we were kids in school.”

“And what do you think of it?”

“I think it’s shit.”

“Yes,” said Varone. “I thought you would.”

He studied the clerk. The man had taken care to brush his dark blue uniform; he had polished his buttons, too. But the epaulettes, and the
braiding that ran over the right shoulder, were dingy, the white silk gone grey. It was this lack of thoroughness that told Varone all he needed to know about the clerk: he was inconsistent. Just the sort of policeman that Varone liked.

“Tell me what you know.”

“There is still the matter of payment,” said the clerk.

Varone glanced over to where Paolo stood near the tall iron fence. He nodded. Paolo came over to the bench and withdrew a soiled envelope from inside his coat. He passed it to the clerk, who opened the envelope and looked inside.

“I should count it, maybe,” he said.

“If you like,” said Varone. He waited as the man counted the money, feeling each note, before folding the envelope and putting it in his breast pocket.

“He trained as a doctor,” the clerk said. “There is no record of him having practised, but that isn’t unusual. From a well-to-do family— made their money in the garment industry. Parents died some time ago, no siblings. And no family riches left, either. All spent on the bottle, it would seem. In thirty-eight he served a few days in Poggio Reale for being a red propagandist, but I would guess that was probably just bad luck. He doesn’t seem the type that would actually be involved in anything of substance. A few other charges for public drunkenness and causing a disturbance—that sort of thing.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why you would be interested in this man. He is nothing—a nobody.”

Varone watched a small black lizard creep out onto the seat of the bench to warm its belly on the stone. He reached slowly into his pocket and took out a piece of biscotti. He broke off a crumb and placed it on the seat a few inches from the lizard.

“That is your opinion, is it?” he said.

“It is,” said the clerk.

“And you are confident in it?”

“I am, yes. Fully confident.”

“Then maybe you can tell me why this man—who you say is anobody—spends his time talking to the security police?”

“Are you sure about this?” the clerk asked.

“If I say it’s so,” said Varone, “it is so.”

The lizard’s head twitched. It began to inch itself forward, and when it did, Varone brought his hand quickly down on top of it, cupping it against the stone. Then he pinched his fingers together at the base of the lizard’s skull and picked it up.

“How should I know why he is talking to them?” the clerk said, and shifted slightly away. “They don’t tell us anything. They think we are a joke.”

“And are you?” said Varone. “Are you a joke?”

The clerk straightened his tunic. “No, we are not. Maybe he is telling them stories, like this one here.” He motioned towards the storyteller, who was stamping now on the other bench and making noises like a lion.

“Perhaps,” Varone said. “Perhaps.”

The lizard hissed between his fingers.

“Do you know that some lizards, when they lose their tail, they can grow it back?”

“I’ve heard that,” said the clerk.

Varone looked at the clerk and smiled. “Unfortunately, this isn’t one of them.”

With the thumb and middle finger of his free hand, he pinched off the lizard’s tail. The creature twisted madly and drops of blood fell onto the leg of Varone’s trousers.

“Our friend here,” he said, “will have to run if he wishes to survive.
If he can run long enough, his wound will heal and he will live. If he cannot, he will be killed and eaten.”

Varone set the lizard on the ground and watched it scurry towards a clump of shrubbery, an uneven red stain, like a shaky brush stroke, marking its path. Then he leaned across and took the envelope from the clerk’s pocket. He removed a single note from within and called Paolo over again. He gave him the note and said: “Give it to the storyteller.” Then he put the envelope into his own pocket.

“Give me your hand,” he said to the clerk. He put the severed lizard’s tail into the man’s palm, where it continued to squirm, like a leech doused with salt. “You will find out what this
dottore
has been saying to the security police.”

The clerk stared at the wriggling, bloody stump in his hand. “But how?” he said.

Varone closed the clerk’s fingers over the lizard’s broken tail. “You seem like a resourceful man to me. I’m sure that you’ll find a way.”

“And if I can’t get you the information?”

Varone let go of the clerk’s hand and stood up from the bench. He wiped away the blood on his fingers with a clean white handkerchief.

“How fast can you run?” he said.

After mess was the morning briefing. Sergeants Bennington and Jones brought the major up to speed on their investigations into the wire cutting—not an organized operation, it seemed, but merely coincidence: residents in the Spaccanapoli district were taking advantage of a scale-back in military police patrols to help themselves to the telephone cable that had been laid by the engineers the month before; the copper wiring was sold off to black market scrap traders. A few suspects had been brought in for questioning, but as they were no
longer in possession of the stolen wire, they’d been released, though there were still a number of leads to be followed. Sergeant Roylance and Corporal Blair were both scheduled to give testimony at the Castel Capuano courts against suspects who had been denounced by their neighbours. Corporal Philbin reported that there was little of interest in the file boxes collected from FSHQ, and Greaves confirmed that the same was true of the names he’d chased down at the Questura.

When the briefing was finished, every man went his separate way. Major Woodard took the staff car and headed for a meeting at GHQ at Caserta, and Bennington and Jones struck out for the British officers’ club to take advantage of the major’s absence and to delay what they knew would be another fruitless canvas of the Spaccanapoli. Philbin left on one of the section’s two motorbikes for Field Security HQ at Castellammare with the weekly dispatch, leaving Greaves to see to the petitioners.

He collected a box of sharpened pencils, two notebooks, a number of string files, and the ledger and brought them to the table that had been set up in the courtyard. Before he opened the gate, he organized the small crowd waiting there into a queue, giving each person a number written on a sheet of paper torn from one of the notebooks, ignoring the warning
No erasures, No pages to be detached
written on its cover. Then he sat down and called the first person.

Twice a week the section opened its doors to civilians, and Greaves split the duties of liaison officer with Sergeant Jones. In the first weeks after the occupation it was
dottori
and
ingegneri
,
avvocati
and
professori
who presented themselves, credentials in hand, and tendered their services as translators and informants. But in the months since, the traffic to 803 FSS had been almost solely of those seeking retribution—against old enemies and new; against neighbours and business rivals and relatives and strangers; against anyone who, with
cause or without, they perceived had done them wrong. And every Tuesday morning Greaves listened to them, made notes, assured each that he would look into their accusation. And when he had taken in all of the numbered pieces of paper he’d distributed, he closed the gate and told those who had arrived in the meantime that they would have to return on Thursday, when they would become Sergeant Jones’s headache.

The last petitioner dealt with, Greaves gathered his notes together and put them into his satchel. Then he climbed aboard the section’s second motorbike and left for the Questura.

On his way to the central police station, he detoured to the museum. He took Via Roma and weaved his way through the troop transports, jeeps, and dull green sedans with white stars painted on their doors that shared the crowded roadway with the drays and the handcarts. The air reverberated with the sound of horn blasts and gunning engines. When he reached the museum, he parked the motorbike at the curbside.

The
carabiniere
guarding the front entrance nodded as he came up the steps. “Checking up on the
professore
so soon?” he said.

“No,” replied Greaves, and reached into his satchel and took out the envelope on which he had neatly printed Luisa’s name. He held it out to the policeman. “I was hoping you might give this to Signora Gennaro for me.”

The
carabiniere
took the envelope and turned it over in his hands, then looked back at Greaves. “It is a love letter, maybe?”

“Actually,” said Greaves, “it’s official business.”

“Then why don’t you deliver it yourself? I’m not an errand boy.”

“Look,” said Greaves, “I’m in a bit of a hurry. Would you just make sure that she gets it?”

“Have you got a cigarette for me?”

Greaves took one out and gave it to him. “You won’t forget?”

The
carabiniere
shrugged. Greaves handed him the rest of the packet. The policeman grinned and said, “The first chance I get.”

Cioffi shifted restlessly in his chair. On the table between them was a plate of
sfogliatelle
. Abruzzi picked up one of the pastries and took a bite; he wiped away a spot of cream from the corner of his mouth. Then he said: “Help yourself,
dottore
.”

Cioffi grabbed for the plate. He put an entire pastry into his mouth, and then took another.

“You’ll find that I am a fair man,
dottore
,” Abruzzi said. “If you can deliver what you promise, then I will take care of you.”

Cioffi looked up at him, his cheeks full, and waited to hear what might happen if he didn’t deliver on his promise; but Abruzzi did not elaborate. Instead, the young man turned his attention to the crowded dining room of the small restaurant. Interspersed among the soldiers were several refugees from the city’s middle class, sitting wan-faced at their tables sipping chicory coffee and doing their best not to appear destitute.

“We’re getting a better class of beggar in here,” he said.

Cioffi glanced around. “Beggars are beggars.”

“That’s true,
dottore
,” Abruzzi said. He laid his hands flat on the table. “When do you see your uncle?”

“I will go tomorrow morning.”

Abruzzi grinned. “The fox in the henhouse, eh? Now, tell me again about this man who approached you. He asked only your name?”

“Yes. But he was very threatening. He very nearly broke my arm.”

“Stocky, with a big square head like a block of marble?”

“Yes, that’s right. His hair was dark and cut very short.”

“And he had a scar on his cheek?” Abruzzi said. “You’re sure of that?”

“Like a crescent moon. Do you know who he is?”

“Paolo Fortuna. He belongs to Salvatore Varone.”

Cioffi stopped chewing. He could feel the colour drain from his face. “Salvatore Varone. But what does he want from me?”

“From you?” said Abruzzi. He laughed and reached across the table and took the half-eaten pastry from Cioffi’s hand. “He doesn’t want anything from you,
dottore
. It’s me that he’s after.”

Luisa sat on the arm of the red leather chair and looked down at her cousin perched on the edge of the seat cushion. Maria was nervous and picked at the tips of her nails, searching out flaws in the polish. The anteroom was less than half full now. The interviews had been going on for well over two hours, and before that the hopeful had stood a further hour outside in the street, waiting for the American officer to come out with his clipboard and take down their names.

Luisa had found out about the new officers’ club the Americans were opening up in the Banco di Napoli building from the letter that Tenente Greaves had left with the
carabiniere
at the front entrance of the museum four days earlier. There were, the
tenente
wrote, openings for waitresses and cashiers. He’d included in the envelope a reference attesting to the suitability of Maria’s qualifications; it was typed out on security police stationery.

There must have been a hundred women applying for the handful of positions. They came with their hair fixed, makeup on their faces, wearing the best dresses in their ever-shrinking wardrobes, doing their utmost to conceal the hunger that rumbled their bellies. It was better not to appear too needy. The soldier, a corporal in a pressed khaki uniform who sat at the desk outside the captain’s office, watched them, making no secret of his interest: he had already
spoken to many of the women, making sure that the prettier of them went into the office first. If Maria had noticed this, she didn’t let on to Luisa. She had spent so much time trying to look her best. She’d changed her dress three times, combed out her hair so that it lay in a wave over her shoulders, put on rouge and lipstick, her good black shoes with the thick heels. She had even unbuttoned herself to show her cleavage.

“There are only ugly girls left.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said Luisa.

Maria let out a sigh. “I don’t want to do this.”

Luisa ran a gentle hand over her cousin’s long dark hair. “You’ll see. It will be better this way.”

They had argued the night before, and that morning too. Maria had cried, but Luisa would not back down. She told her that she would have to leave the apartment if she did not agree. The other tenants were talking, she’d said, and what Maria was doing was shameful. It had made Luisa feel sick to her stomach to take sides against her cousin; she had done so because she wanted Maria to be safe. She only hoped that her cousin, in time, would understand this. Even now, the faint shadow of bruising showed through the powder below Maria’s left eye.

The door to the office opened and a young woman emerged. The captain, who had earlier taken down their names, held her by the arm. With him was the interpreter, a middle-aged man with neatly oiled hair and wearing a dark suit with a pale yellow tie. He fit well with the surroundings: he had the arrogance of a loans clerk. The young woman began to cry, and the captain turned to the interpreter and said: “Will you please tell her that making a scene won’t help matters.”