The Parsifal Mosaic (10 page)

“Down here, if one cares to make a living one must be understood in half a dozen tongues.” The man slipped the money into his apron pocket, adding, “They no doubt speak Italian, probably better than you, signore. So let us speak in English. What do you wish me to do?”

“There’s an empty table back there,” said Havelock, relieved, changing languages, and gesturing with his head toward the left rear corner of the café. “I’m going over and sit down. You go to those men and tell them I want to see them—one at a time. If you think they won’t understand me, come over with each and be my interpreter.”

“Interprete?”

“Sì.”

“Bene.”

One by one the four Portuguese sailors came to the table, each bewildered, two proficient in Italian, one in English, one needing the services of the
interprete
. To each, Michael said the same words:

“I’m looking for a woman. It’s a minor matter, nothing to be concerned about; call it an affair of the heart. She’s an impetuous woman; we’ve all known them, haven’t we? But now she may have gone too far for her own good. I’m told she has a friend on the
Cristóvão
. She may have been around the pier, asking questions, looking for transport. She’s an attractive woman, average height, blond hair, probably wearing a raincoat and a wide-brimmed hat. Have you seen anyone like that? If you have, there could be a lot more money in your pocket than there is now.”

And with each man he gave an explanation for his summons that the sailor could take back to his companions, along with 5,000 lire: “Whatever you tell me remains between us. For my good more than yours. When you go back to your table, you can say the same thing I’m telling everyone. I want rough sex with someone leaving Civitavecchia, but I’m not going to take it from any son of a bitch who won’t leave his papers down at a hotel desk. Released by me. Got it?”

Only with the third man did the bartender, who insisted on being present at each interview, caution Havelock firmly. “This one will leave his papers at a desk,” he said.

“Then he’s not my type.”

“Bene!”

“Grazie.”

“Prego.”

Nothing. No such woman had been seen or heard of on the
Cristóvão
pier. The four Portuguese crewmen resumed their drinking.

Havelock thanked the perplexed older man beside him, and pressed another bill into his apron pocket. “Which way to Il Pinguino?” he asked.

“The
Elba
crew?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll go with you,” said the bartender, removing his apron and the money in its pocket.

“Why?”

“You sound like a decent man. Also stupid. You walk into Il Pinguino asking questions, your money’s for everyone. All it takes is one sailor with a quiet knife.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You are not only stupid, you are
very
stupid. I own Il Tritone; they respect me at Il Pinguino. You’ll be safer with me. You pass money too quickly.”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“Presto!
Let’s get on with it. It’s a bad morning here. Not like the old days when men knew that half a chestful was enough. You taste it in your throat, you know. These assholes mix up comfort with wanting no memory,
Vieni!”

The café five blocks away brought back memories, remembrances of a life he had thought was over—he had been in too many such places in that other life. If Il Tritone catered to the garbage of humanity, Il Pinguino took the dregs and considered it
clientela scelta
. The smoke was thicker, the shouting louder; men did not lurch, they lunged at nothing and everything, intent only on the violence in their minds. These were men who found amusement in the sudden exposure of another’s weakness or a semblance of weakness—which they construed as an absence of manhood—and then attacked.

They had nothing else. They challenged the shadows of their own deepest fears.

The owner of Il Tritone was greeted by his counterpart within seconds of ushering Havelock through the door. The Pinguino’s
proprietario
matched his establishment, having few teeth and arms that hung like huge, hairy cheeses. He was not as large as Michael’s newfound friend, but there was
a sense of violence about him that made one think of a boar that could be quickly stirred to anger.

The greetings between the two men were spoken rapidly, perfunctorily. But there was respect, as Il Tritone’s owner had said there would be, and the arrangements were made swiftly, with a minimum of explanation.

“The American looks for a woman. It is a
malinteso
, and not our business,” said the owner of Il Tritone. “She may be sailing with the
Elba
, and one of these thieves may have seen her. He’s willing to pay.”

“He’d better hurry,” replied the sullen boar. “The oilers left an hour ago; they’re sweating piss-green by now. The second mate will be here any minute to gather up the rest of the deck.”

“How many are there?”

“Eight, ten, who knows? I count lire, not faces.”

“Have one of your people go around and ask quietly, find them, and tell me who they are. Clear a table for my companion. I’ll bring each one to him.”

“You give orders as though the Pinguino were the Tritone.”

“Because I would accord you the same courtesy, even as my tongue thickened as yours does now. One never knows. You could need my help tomorrow.… Each pig from the
Elba
is worth ten thousand lire to you.”

“Bene.”
The Pinguino’s owner walked away toward the bar.

“Do not give these men any excuse for talking to you as you did the
Portoghese,”
said Michael’s companion. “For them it was good thinking, but not for these. There’s no time, and in their drunkenness they could find the wrong meaning. Bottles are broken easily in here.”

“Then what am I going to say? I’ve got to separate them, give each a reason for talking to me alone. I can’t go up to all of them at once. One may know something, but he’s not going to tell me in front of the others.”

“Agreed. So tell each you trust only
him
. The others—you were told—are
not
to be trusted. You spoke with them only for appearance, because your business concerns the
Elba
. It will be enough.”

“I’m a stranger. Who would tell me something like that?”

“A man who knows his clientele—the one you paid. The
owner of Il Pinguino.” The owner of Il Tritone grinned. “By the time they reach port again, he’ll be covered with stink. He’ll need the
carabinieri
every night.”

Separately, warily, in varying phases of stupor, the remaining crew of the
Elba
sat down and listened to Havelock’s increasingly fluent Italian as he repeated the same question. And with each he studied the man’s face, the eyes, looking for a reaction, a glint of recognition, a brief straying of a glance that covered a lie. With the sixth man he thought he found it; it was in the lips—a sudden stretching unrelated to the sagging muscle tone induced by whisky, and in the clouded eyes, dulled further by an instinctive desire not to listen. The man knew something.

“You’ve seen her,
haven’t
you?” said Michael, losing control, speaking in English.

“Ascolta,”
interrupted the owner of Il Tritone.
“In italiano, signore.”

“Sorry.” Havelock repeated the question, which was more an accusation, in Italian.

The sailor responded with a shrug, shifted his position, and started to get up. Michael reached over quickly and clamped his hand on the seaman’s arm. The response was now ugly; the sailor squinted his rheumy, red-veined eyes, his mouth like that of an angry dog, lips parted, stained yellow teeth showing. In seconds he would lunge—drunkenly, to be sure, but nevertheless, attack was imminent.

“Lascialo,”
ordered the owner of Il Tritone, then spoke rapidly under his breath in English. “Show him money. Quickly! This pig will grab your throat, and they’ll be all over us and you will learn nothing. You are right. He’s seen her.”

Havelock released the man’s arm, reached into his pocket and took out the thick pack of awkwardly small lire notes. He separated two bills and placed them in front of the sailor; they totaled 40,000 lire, a day’s pay on board ship.

“As you can see,” he said in Italian, “there’s more here. You can’t take it from me, but I can give it to you. On the other hand, you can walk away and not tell me anything.” Michael paused, leaned back in the chair, staring at the man, his expression hostile. “But I can make trouble for you. And I will.”

“
In
che modo?”
The crewman was as angry as he was bewildered,
his eyes darting between Havelock’s face, the money, and the owner of Il Tritone, who sat impassively, his rigid posture showing that he was aware of the danger in Michael’s tactic.

“How?” Havelock leaned forward, his fingers pulling the lire toward him, as though retrieving two vital cards in a game of baccarat. “I’ll go over to the
Elba
and find your captain. Whatever I say to him about you he’s not going to like.”

“Che cosa?
What?… What can you say to him
in riguardo a me
that he would
credere?”
The sailor’s sudden use of English words was unexpected. He turned to the owner of Il Tritone. “Perhaps this pig will grab
your
throat, old man. I need no help from others. For you or this
ricco americano.”
The man unzipped his coarse wool jacket; the handle of a knife protruded from a scabbard strapped to his belt; his head swayed from the effects of the whisky. A very thin line was about to be crossed.

Abruptly, Michael settled back in his chair and laughed quietly. It was a genuine laugh, in no way hostile or challenging, further confusing the seaman. “
Bene!”
said Michael, suddenly leaning forward again, removing two more 5,000-lire notes from the loose packet of bills. “I wanted to find out if you had balls, and you told me. Good! A man without balls doesn’t know what he sees. He makes things up because he’s afraid, or because he sees money.” Havelock gripped the man’s hand at the wrist, forcing the palm open. It was a strong if friendly grip, indicating a strength the sailor had to acknowledge. “Here! Fifty thousand lire. There’s no quarrel between us. Where did you see her?”

The abrupt changes of mood were beyond the man’s comprehension. He was reluctant to forgo the challenge, but the combination of the money, the grip and the infectious laugh made him retreat. “Are you … go to my captain?” he asked in English, eyes swimming.

“What for? You just told me. It has nothing to do with him. Why bring that
farabutto
into it? Let him earn his own money. Where did you see her?”

“On the street
Ragazza bionda. Bella. Cappello a large tesa.”
“Blond, attractive … wide hat!
Where?
Who was she with? A mate, a ship’s officer?
Un ufficiale?”

“Not the
Elba
. The next ship.
Nave mercantile.”

“There are only two. The
Cristóvão
and the
Teresa
. Which one?”

The man glanced around, head bobbing, eyes only half focused. “She was talking to two men … one a
capitano.”

“Which one?”

“A
destra,”
whispered the sailor, pulling the back of his hand across his wet lips.

“On the right?” “asked Michael quickly. The
Santa Teresa?”

The seaman now rubbed his chin and blinked; he was afraid, his eyes suddenly focused to the left of the table. He shrugged, crushing the money in his right hand, as he pushed back his chair.
“Non so niente. Una puttana del capitano.”

“Mercantile italiano?”
pressed Havelock. The Italian freighter? “The
Santa Teresa?”

The sailor stood up, his face white. “Sì … 
No! Destra
 … 
sinistra!”
The man’s eyes were now riveted somewhere across the room; Michael angled his head unobtrusively. Three men at a table against the wall were watching the crewman from the
Elba, “Il capitano. Un marinaio superiors! Il migliore!”
cried the seaman hoarsely. “I know nothing else, signore!” He lurched away, shouldering a path through the bodies gathered at the bar toward the alley door.

“You play dangerously,” commented the owner of Il Tritone. “It could have gone either way.”

“With a mule—drunk or otherwise—nothing’s ever replaced the carrot and the whip,” said Havelock, his head still turned slightly, his concentration still on the three men at the table across the room.

“You could have had blood on your stomach and have learned nothing at all.”

“But I
did
learn something.”

“Not a great deal. A freighter on the right, on the left. Which?”

“He said on the right first.”

“Coming off the pier, or going on to it?”

“From his immediate point of view. Going on.
Destra
. The
Santa Teresa
. She’ll be put on board the
Teresa
, which means I have time to find her before she’s given the signal. She’s somewhere within sight of the dock.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Il Tritone’s owner, shaking his head “Our mule was specific. The captain was
un marinaio superiore. Migliore
. The best, a great seaman. The captain of the
Teresa
is a tired merchantman. He never sails past Marseilles.”

“Who are those men at the table over there?” asked Michael, his question barely audible through the din. “Don’t turn your head, just shift your eyes. Who are they?”

“I do not know them by name.”

“What does that mean?”

“Italiano,”
said the owner of Il Tritone, his voice flat.

“The
Santa Teresa,”
said Havelock, removing a number of bills and putting the rest of the money back into his pocket. “You’ve been a great help,” he said. “I owe the
proprietario
. The rest is for you.”

“Grazie.”

“Prego.”

“I will see you down the alley to the waterfront. I still do not like it. We don’t know those men are from the
Teresa
. Something is not
in equilibrio.”