The Namesake (50 page)

Pepè came over and handed Ruggiero the keys.

Enrico’s grief was momentarily trumped by astonishment. ‘How did you do that? Since when has Pepè snapped to attention when you click your fingers?’

‘That’s not it, Enrico. I knew he would want to show you an act of kindness. In times of trouble and sorrow, we stick together. Come on. On a
motorino
we’ll be there in no time.’

Basile started cleaning the coffee machine and making a lot of noise with the foaming arm as Ruggiero escorted Enrico out.

Ardore

The sunlight was no longer shining on the walls of his prison, and his thoughts were no longer able to resist the idea of water. But if he tried to crawl all the way back into the darkness, he would never come out again. This knowledge, along with the piercing pains in his shoulder and a physical weariness such as he had never experienced, kept him where he was. It was embarrassing, too, to die because he was unable to climb out of a three-metre-deep hole, like drowning in two inches of water. Drowning in cold water would be good.

He lay down. The phone he had thrown to the gods above had shown the date to be 3 September, but he didn’t believe it. Surely, he had been in there for far longer than that? If it was just one day after the Polsi summit, then there was still time for Curmaci to keep his word and come for him. Curmaci had seemed a decent enough type. Most people were pretty much the same. It just depended on the system they found themselves in. Or maybe Curmaci was evil, but Blume was too tired to try to hate him. There was nothing particularly awful about Curmaci, even if he was a demon.

The sky was darkening nicely now, and there were no clouds visible through his blasted gap. He decided he would prefer no moon, so he could see the millions of stars and lie back and think his way into them.

Ardore (village)

Two hundred euros to cross to the east coast, fifty up front, and the taxi wasn’t even legal and the driver was completely unimpressed by her police badge, but she was lucky she had found him. Not all taxi drivers at the airport, legal or not, would have been willing to have a policewoman from Rome as their fare, no matter what the price.

‘How much longer?’

‘Fifty minutes.’ The taxi driver, like Blume, measured out his journey in units of time rather than distance. At least he did not ask her who she was or what she was doing, or why she wanted a taxi to drive her at nightfall into a wilderness on the lower slopes of the mountains. There were a lot of questions the taxi driver was making a point of not asking.

On calling Massimiliani from the airport as soon as the plane landed, she was furious to learn that she was only an hour and a half behind him. Surely he should have been there hours before? Her anger swept away Massimiliani’s half-hearted objections to her arrival.

Twenty minutes into the taxi journey, Massimiliani called with news that was good when she looked at it one way, ominous when she looked at it another.

‘We found a vehicle belonging to Pietro Megale. The call you got came from his phone. I am assuming there is no connection between you and him beyond this call?’

‘You assume right. Blume has his phone. That means he is dead.’

‘Blume’s dead?’

‘No!’ shouted Caterina. ‘Pietro is dead. If he’s missing and Blume has his phone, he’s either dead or incapacitated. Blume is strong. But now he needs our help.’

Caterina realized the taxi driver had heard every single word; she didn’t care. She looked at her watch. Seven o’clock. It would be dark when she got there, wherever ‘there’ was.

The taxi driver’s sense of timing was spot on. The sun was dipping below the mountains, a perfect orange disc and soft on the eyes as they climbed the curving road to Ardore. Massimiliani had asked her to call as she arrived, and she did. He told her to have the taxi leave her in the main square, where a squad car would be waiting for her. It wouldn’t do to have a taxi drive all the way to the scene.

The taxi driver looked at her askance when she produced a Bancomat card.

‘What, you don’t have one of those swipe machines?’ she asked.

‘Sure I do.’ He pulled one out of the glove compartment, switched it on. ‘It takes time to boot up, find a phone signal, especially out here. Are you sure you don’t have cash? It would be much faster.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Caterina.

‘That police car is waiting for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Always with the flashing lights. Maybe if you police turned off the flashing lights, you’d catch someone unawares someday, but no, the lights have to be flashing. Sirens, too, blaring away in the night when the only things that’ll be listening are children trying to sleep and the only things on the roads have four legs . . . there we go, we’re online now. How much shall I put in for the tip?’

The police car swept down the hill, siren blaring, then took a series of bumpy roads and tracks. The driver did not turn off the siren until they left the road for a field. He remained grimly silent and concentrated even as the vehicle dipped and shuddered across a rough field, tossing them up and down uncontrollably in their seats like two children in a bouncy castle.

Parked by a thicket of myrtle bushes were three other police vehicles, one of which was a van, all of them with their lights flashing.

‘Is that all?’ said Caterina.

The policeman shrugged.

They parked and Caterina had to hurry the policeman who was supposed to be accompanying her to wherever they were going. She saw no sign of generators or arc lights. The writing on the side of the van said
Squadra Cinofilo
. The dog handlers were here.

Locri

When Ruggiero came downstairs, showered and in fresh clothes, Zia Rosa was in the kitchen. The familiar folds and lines in her face seemed to have been drawn taut as if the white skull beneath was straining to get out. He had had no idea she would be here. She and his mother had not been talking, so he had not heard their voices. Nor had anyone been crying. Only now did he remember hearing whispering and murmurs too tense and disjointed for it to be his mother talking to Roberto. He had walked into the kitchen without thinking, and when he saw his aunt there, sitting in the same chair where his father had been a few hours earlier, he recognized this meeting was inevitable and he had been childish not to anticipate it.

His mother looked startled to see him there, as if a stranger had just walked into the room.

‘Zia Rosa,’ said Ruggiero, his voice full of pleasant surprise. He went over to the kitchen sink, and filled a glass of water and drank it down, making an appreciative and slightly jocular ‘ah’ as he drained the glass, then filled up another, annoyed to see his hand was trembling. He let the water run, rinsing out the glass several times before turning off the tap, and taking another drink of water, more slowly this time. He reached out and touched his mother’s elbow, and held it for a while.

‘Any news from Zio Pietro?’

No one answered.

‘We are all shocked at what happened to your brother-in-law. I’m sorry for your loss. Tony was a good man. We did not see enough of him in these parts. I am sure whoever did this . . .’

‘Where is Enrico?’ said Zia Rosa, her voice husky and harsh, almost a growl.

‘Enrico? You mean he hasn’t called? He must be . . . I don’t know, have you tried Basile’s bar? I was there today and they were saying that Enrico had been in. I thought he would be home by now. But I’ve been in for a while, you know, on PlayStation. So, I don’t know. He’s not really my responsibility. If he wants to disappear, have some time to himself after all that’s happened . . .’

‘Maria! Get out of the way. I want to see your son standing there.’

His mother pulled her elbow away, and seemed to shudder as she did so.

‘Look at me, Ruggiero,’ ordered Zia Rosa. ‘Look into this face from which you have received thousands of kisses. Look at me.’

Ruggiero raised his eyes, and looked at Zia Rosa, and allowed his feelings to drain out of him. He could feel the light go from his eyes as he stared at what was in effect nothing more than an ugly old woman, her skin like an uncooked chicken, her eyes full of despair turning to hate. If he concentrated on that alone, he could suspend all sympathy.

‘I have not seen Enrico,’ he repeated, using his standing position to try to stare her down. ‘I have not seen him. You cannot ask me if I have seen him.’

The moaning sound that came from the old woman at the table seemed to fill the entire room. With a sudden scream, she leaped up and went for his face, clawing at him with her hands, slicing his lips and bloodying his gums with her nails, spitting, biting, pulling his hair and hurling maledictions into his face. She screamed curses against his health, his reason, his prick, balls, gut, the follicles in his head, the shit in his intestines, the ice in his blood; she invoked deformities and pain on his children and his children’s children, and called down every human and animal disease upon the whole Curmaci family. She begged God to blast him, men to rape him, burn him, scatter his parts, and she called upon the wind to sweep him away as if he had never been.

He accepted all this, and even willed her to strike him harder, but she was too feeble. Across the table, his mother was weeping.

Ardore

Massimiliani was standing in a field of white flowers, three policemen wearing reflective jackets by his side.

‘We’re near, but there’s no sign of anyone,’ said Massimiliani. He looked at her again. ‘You’re different in person. I saw your file.’

‘What about a helicopter? Searchlights, a full team?’ she demanded.

Massimiliani puffed out his cheeks. ‘We’re not looking for a missing child. And I’m not even in charge here. I am about to call in extra help, though.’

Something nuzzled her knee, and she glanced down to see a white Labrador. The handler, dressed in blue fatigues, was grinning at her.

‘How many dogs are out here?’

‘Two,’ said the handler.

‘And this is one of them?’ she pointed to the Labrador, which was lolling in the grass and licking her shoes. ‘Why isn’t he helping?’

‘It’s a she,’ said the handler. ‘She’s not much use at this sort of thing.’

Caterina pointed at an unleashed black dog walking slowly away from her across the field. ‘And that one?’

‘That’s a cadaver dog,’ said the handler, following her gaze. ‘It sniffs out, well, it’s self-explanatory.’

‘And the Labrador?’

‘She’s great with scent articles. You know, a piece of clothing or something worn by the victim.’

‘By the missing person,’ corrected Caterina.

‘Yeah, whatever. But there is nothing belonging to the victim for her to use . . . so.’ He shrugged.

‘Wait . . .’ Caterina pulled open her bag, and started fumbling around in it. ‘Did no one here think to bring a fucking torch?’

‘Use your mobile phone,’ said the handler helpfully.

‘This is a night-time search and no one . . . Hold on.’ She dropped to her knees and the Labrador raised its face and looked at her expectantly, then, out of sheer friendliness, gave her mouth a lick. Caterina cupped her hands and the dog stuck its nose into them.

The handler caught the dog by the collar and dragged it away. ‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing? What are you giving her?’

‘It’s his watch. He only wore it for a short time, but – it might work, mightn’t it?’

‘A watch? That’s not ideal. What you really want is a piece of cloth. And if he only wore it . . .’

‘But he kept it in his pocket for months, used it like it was a pocket watch.’

The handler dropped to his knees and ushered Caterina away. ‘OK, but I’ll do this. She’s still young and a bit stupid, but she’s good.’

‘It’s a full moon,’ said Massimiliani. She jumped, having forgotten about him, being completely focused on the handler and his stupid Labrador, who were now running back and forth through the flower stalks for all the world like they were playing a game.

‘Anyway,’ said Massimiliani, ‘here’s the torch you were looking for, though we hardly need it.’

Caterina looked up at the moon. That was why she could see the Labrador and the handler so well.

The Labrador barked and the handler cried out, ‘She’s got something.’

Hadn’t he asked for a new moon, a dark night and stars? But the moon would do just fine. He couldn’t see it yet, but it was lighting the patch of sky he was watching. Soon he would have moonbeams for company. In the morning, he would think about ways of getting water out of the soil. Or he might crawl back into the hole.

A shadow blocked out the view through the hole he had made, and Blume felt immeasurable sadness at the loss of sky. The shadow vanished, then suddenly popped back and poked a face in. An animal. A goat? It must be a goat.

The goat barked. The sound was very loud as it echoed down the walls of his prison. It barked and barked and barked. The clamour was tremendous, overpowering. If he had any voice, he would have shouted back, and they would have created a feast of noise.