Wu Ming Page 6

  ‘Those southerners are all Christian Democrats out of convenience, because everybody knows that the Americans and the priests will always give you a present, whether it’s a bar of chocolate or a pair of shoes doesn’t matter: thanks and shut up. The Yanks and the Vatican are in charge in Italy, all because we, the only ones who know what’s best for Italy, aren’t in government. We’re always the ones who have to do everything for everybody. Look what a prize bollocks they made of Trieste at the end of the year. They rise up against the Americans and the British, they want to drive them out, and they’re right, the poor things, you can’t have strangers in your house all your life. But the Allies are worried that Tito will take Trieste, and they don’t trust the Italians. Moral of the tale: they haven’t let go for ten years. And the people of Trieste are getting well fucked over.’

  Walterún lifts his head from his trump cards and stretches his neck: ‘Go on then, explain to me that story about Tito that I keep forgetting. How come he’s a fascist? I mean, he’s a communist, but really he’s a fascist?’

  Melega sighs, with the face he makes when he wants to say, ‘another ignorant southerner’: ‘Right, listen carefully, I’m only going to say this once. Not everyone who claims to be a communist is a real communist. Otherwise we’d already have taken over the world! Tito, for example, goes along with the Americans, he acts the whore, he’ll go with anyone. He wants to make socialism, but he wants to do it according to his rules, the way it suits him, he won’t listen to anyone, least of all the Russians, who had their revolution before he did. But what I say is that if someone got things right before you did, you pay him some attention, don’t you? It means that he’s got more experience! But the Slavs are horrible people, you can never trust them, gypsies the lot of them, worse than the southerners. But we’re the only ones standing guard, so we don’t end up in that situation.’

  Then, because he’s about to hit the jack, Melega leans over the billiard table and is silent for a moment, concentrating on the game. Turning his back on the door, he fails to notice that Benfenati, from the Section, is here on his usual visit. After scoring his point, he is about to continue with his speech, particularly the insults directed against gypsies, southerners and tramps, but Bortolotti manages to save him: ‘Benfenati’s here, Mauro,’ he says loudly. ‘Why don’t we ask him to explain this business about Tito?’

  Melega just manages to bite his tongue; he rolls his eyes like someone who has just escaped a danger, throws back his head and greets the new arrival. He has Bortolotti to thank for avoiding a slanging match, and us too, because no one could have saved us from a lecture on Gramsci and the southern question. Because Benfenati isn’t a bad person, quite the opposite in fact, and also a very good comrade, sure, but he has this one shortcoming, which is that whatever people are talking about, he has to stick his nose in and tell you the Party line on it. Now that’s absolutely fine if you’re talking about Tito’s fascism, for example, everyone’s interested, but other times he does it just for the sake of chatting and once he goes off on his little lecture, you’re never going to bring the subject back to football or some actor’s divorce or whatever. Some people say he does it just because that’s what he’s like, he always wants to be top of the class, while others swear that it’s the Party that’s taught him to be like that, ‘activism starts in the family, in the place of work, in the bar . . .’ Or something of that kind.

  ‘. . . and after the war Tito had the Russian technicians shadowed when they came to give him a hand with the reconstruction, see what I mean? Fine example of international solidarity among the workers! And then there’s the fact that he’s a nationalist, he treats the Soviet Union like any other bourgeois state, and on top of that he’s arrogant, ambitious, presumptuous, typical of the counterrevolutionary Trotskyites.’

  Bottone nods, convinced, this Tito strikes him as a scoundrel, while Garibaldi, as usual, decides to be bloody-minded.

  ‘Ok, so at the end of the day you’re trying to tell us that the Yugoslavian communists became fascists because Tito and Stalin didn’t get on, is that it?’

  ‘No, Garibaldi, don’t put words in my mouth! There are serious ideological reasons, and besides . . .’ He raises his hands and hooks the index finger of one into the thumb of the other: ‘First, in the Yugoslavian Communist Party there are no discussions, woe betide anyone who dares to criticise, the rulers aren’t elected, there’s a police check on militants and a real Turkish-style despotism. Second,’ and his index fingers meet to form a cross, ‘Tito says that the peasants are the most solid base of the Yugoslav state, in the face of Lenin and the proletarian hegemony. Meanwhile, in the countryside, he doesn’t do anything Marxist, and one day he allows the little private farm to generate capitalism, the day after that he’s acting the demagogue, hoopla, all of a sudden he wants to sweep away all the wealthy peasants, nationalise the land, like that. Thirdly’ – his whole hand engulfs his middle finger – ‘he’d bring the communists in the Free Territory of Trieste over to his side, if it weren’t for the fact that there’s someone there like our old comrade, who –’

  ‘Oh Vidali, Vidali . . .’ Just for a change, Stefanelli, who’s playing with The Baron against Melega and Bortolotti, shakes his head, which always seems to mean something like ‘Oh, if you only knew,’ or ‘poor innocent creatures’, but no one really knows what it means.

  Melega walks around the table, takes aim and throws the bowl. He obviously wants to talk, but he doesn’t dare to while Benfenati’s around. And in fact, the moment Benfenati says goodbye to everyone and heads for home, Melega comes into the main bar with his finger pointing and his cowboy look. ‘All I want to say is that as far as I’m concerned Togliatti just has to say, “Come on, then!” And I’ll be off. I’ll get out my Sten gun and pick them off one by one. Round them all up: Christian Democrats, Americans, Yugoslavs, bang! Only language they understand.’

  Garibaldi’s booming voice thunders from the card table. ‘Wasn’t the last war enough for you? Do you want to have another one?’

  Melega turns towards him and waves his index finger in the air like a sabre. ‘Don’t you come the pacifist with me, Garibaldi, I know how many fascists you killed in Spain. And it was the same thing here: if we communists hadn’t taken up arms in ’43 and hadn’t killed loads of fascists and Germans we’d all be talking English right now! They didn’t give us free rein because the time wasn’t right. Do you know what I mean? They’re bloody lucky the time wasn’t right!’

  ‘Listen,’ says Bortolotti with an irritable nudge of his elbow, ‘could you throw that bowl before I die of boredom?’

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’

  Melega turns around to study the billiards, and Walterún immediately stretches his neck towards Garibaldi and speaks quietly so as not to be heard in the other room. ‘Oh, Garibaldi, perhaps I shouldn’t say this, perhaps I’m getting old, but is Tito really a fascist communist? It’s just that I’ve always thought you were either a fascist or a communist. So what’s going on exactly?’

  ‘Shut up and play, all this talk’s really getting on my tits.’

  Chapter 8

  Naples, 21 January

  You couldn’t trust anyone, that was all there was to it.

  Getting the trucks out of that inferno of carts and humanity, a pack of ravenous stray dogs, incomprehensible cries flying from one side to the other and the stench of fat mixed with the sweetish smell of rotten fruit. Get the load on and off we go, no dawdling, no stops, him in front and Palmo following along behind, twelve hours without interruption. A place like that had nothing whasoever to do with stories of the war, his war. Or rather they did, indeed they did, you just had to look around, all the navy insignia, all those soldiers, but in a different way that he still had to understand. They had told him it was like Calcutta, and he had nodded. But who’d ever seen Calcutta? Certainly not Ettore, who was sure to have seen plenty of chaos, shit and gunfire, but that Mediterranean Calcutta, Naples, affected him, and Palmo made him anxious. What the hell sort of people were wandering around in there? Time to get away quickly, smiling and friendly, but quickly. He didn’t even have any sweets or chocolate that he knew of. All those children jumping and shouting and charging madly about on those wooden carts cobbled together with iron wheels, it all worried him, something insidious like that illness that had carried off part of his family and lots of his mates, that not even the Thompson gun stowed safely away under the driver’s seat could pacify.

  American cigarettes, refillable Ronson liquid gas lighters, various brands of whisky, and junk watches that the shysters on the Via Emilia could sell to some poor suckers. That was the cargo that Ettore took on in Naples, covered with bales of hay and quantities of sackcloth. It was the first time they had taken two vehicles, tarpaulined great things, of wartime vintage, that gave off more smoke than the

  volcano up there ahead of them.

  Mustn’t be distracted.

  The man that everyone, deferentially and submissively, called Vic, orchestrated that chaos almost without moving, in a dark-blue double-breasted suit that made him look even squatter than he was, a basalt block with his hair slicked back with brilliantine and a bouffant pompadour. Soon, Vic would give him a nod of the head and they would be moving, with him in front and Palmo behind, towards the port exit.

  He gave a honk of his claxon in the middle of the hubbub, and for a moment he saw Palmo’s unintelligent expression falter, just for a moment, before he poked his big moon face out of the window.

  ‘When they let us out, stay right up my arse and don’t stop, ever!’ Ettore boomed, while Palmo nodded without a great deal of conviction.

  After several long minutes and two more cigarettes, the man everyone called Vic finally raised his right
arm, and with three crisp movements of the hand he indicated that the cargo was on, telling them to turn around and head off along the internal road running along the shore towards the exit. A few hundred metres in a column, at walking pace, behind other lorries, carts pulled by emaciated horses, women offering fresh water, fruit and all kinds of fried food. Then the little monkeys, dirty and pestiferous, who went on jumping and cavorting all over the place.

  At the start of the Via Marina, the long road running along the docks that was to take them out of the city, the chaos was at its most intense, with passing trams and a mad scramble of carts and horses, and when a gap opened up, Ettore resolutely drove into it, setting off towards the clear road.

  Behind him the screeching brakes of Palmo’s lorry and a series of excited cries announced the shit he had been most afraid of.

  The little boy lay contorted under his back wheels, or rather between the wheels and the cart on to which he had been dragged by his mates, screaming like a lunatic, while another boy clung to the windscreen, shouting, ‘You’ve killed him! You’ve killed him!’ and all of a sudden people were crowding around them.

  When he saw Palmo, purple in the face, getting out of the vehicle clutching his rifle, he knew they were done for.

  ‘Christ alive, Palmo! Stay here, don’t get out, Palmo! For God’s sake!’

  But Palmo was out already, and from that moment it took only a few seconds: the little boys to send Palmo flying, the one who can’t have been more than twelve has leapt for the steering wheel, another three or four have gone for the cargo, and all of a sudden there’s this gap behind the truck, which means they can reverse quickly and flee, despite the shots fired into the air by a furious Ettore.

  One of the monkeys in the gang hadn’t managed to get away. He wriggled about as Palmo came back, cursing, towards the lorry, rifle in hand and the little pest held firmly by the arm.

  Ettore could only watch, from less than fifteen metres away. If he’d got out, they’d have had his lorry as well.

  ‘You are a moron, Palmo,’ he said the moment he had got on board with his writhing snake, who was yelling, ‘Lemme go! Lemme go!’

  Ettore struck him with the back of his hand. He shut up.

  ‘Now what are we going to do?’ asked Palmo, panting agitatedly.

  ‘We’ll head back to the docks, kill someone and get ourselves killed.’

  Ettore didn’t intend to do either of these things, but he was pissed off, he’d said it to frighten Palmo and that little bastard. They’d pinched his lorry, Christ almighty! What was he going to tell Bianco?

  ‘I’m sorry, goombah. Those fuckin’ brats, they’re devils, they are . . .’

  ‘Listen, Yank, I’m not leaving without the rig and the cargo, and I know I’m not going to come out of this looking too great, and neither is my colleague, but first we’re going to have ourselves a bit of fun as well.’

  ‘Listen, my friend. I’m going to see what I can do. But you’re not to fuck things up. Put your gun away and tell your associate to let the boy go, it won’t do anybody any good, there are too many others around. Otherwise we’ll have the Military Police on to us.’

  Ettore looked at him grimly. ‘Don’t you think I know that the police around here see what they want to see? I want the lorry. Without the lorry, there’s going to be a bloodbath.’

  Victor Trimane snorted a few times, troubles every fuckin’ day. He adjusted his tie, glanced around and nodded at someone in the crowd around them.

  He swapped a few words with a small, thin guy who waved his arms around a lot. First he shook his head, then, with a look of resignation, he appeared to be convinced. As the man walked away, Vic said loudly, ‘Tell him Steve Cement and I will be coming later on. Tell him, Antonio, and be quick about it!’

  He turned towards Ettore with a strained smile.

  ‘My friend, as you can see, we’re going to sort everything out right now. You just wait here and don’t do anything stupid.’

  Then he walked over to Palmo, freed the little boy from his grip and sent him on his way with a kick in the arse.

  Ettore lit himself another cigarette. He had to wait and hope that things would be ok, that they weren’t pulling a fast one, he and that cretin of a colleague he’d been lumbered with.

  Palmo stood next to him, silent and red in the face; he was trembling and still hadn’t put down his rifle.

  Ettore handed him a cigarette. ‘Smoke this and put the gun down, quickly.’

  An hour later, Antonio reappeared at the wheel of the lorry, among the shouts and yells of a crowd that hadn’t stopped commenting on what had happened.

  Ettore felt lighter, but the lorry was lighter too.

  Standing by the empty trailer, he looked quizzically at Vic.

  Vic shrugged. ‘What the fuck am I supposed to do, my friend? They’re animals, that lot. Poverty turns them into animals. We can’t give them all a job. They won’t even let us work. Listen to me, you got off lightly. You got your rig back, and believe me, you’re lucky there, this lot have dismantled aircraft-carriers, they’ve sold whole American liners. Listen to me: I’ll give you a little compensation. I’ll give you another five cases of cigarettes and one of whisky, so we don’t leave the lorry empty. And you go home happy and with Don Luciano’s blessing. Ok, goombah?’

  Ettore looked at the tip of his shoes, with his scorching cigarette between his lips. He just had to play his part, and he’d be ok, because although he was furious he had no other option. The lorry was the basic thing.

  He looked up, holding the American’s eyes for a few seconds. He nodded to Palmo, who was still walking around the lorry to check that it was all there.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They headed back to Bologna, to Bianco.

  Chapter 9

  Bologna, 22 January

  A late-nineteenth-century town house converted into apartments. Via San Mamolo, an affluent district at the foot of the hills. Behind the massive front door, the smell of bourbon-scented tobacco and disjointed fragments of jazz from upstairs.

  Pierre bounded up the stairs and found himself right in front of him on the landing, tall and still slim, pipe gripped between his lips and an absorbed expression.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, professore, my brother wouldn’t leave me alone.’

  ‘That’s fine, Pierre, catch your breath and make yourself comfortable while your tea cools down.’

  Renato Fanti led the way down the corridor. Long and narrow, it led through a glass door to the sitting room. That one room, with its floral-patterned sofa and dark furniture, was about as big as the Capponi brothers’ whole flat. Pierre couldn’t stop admiring the elegant furniture, the embroidered curtains, the library crammed with books, the old upright piano that no one played. On the oval table sat a steaming teapot and raisin biscuits, as they did every Friday.

  ‘This is Darjeeling, one of the best teas in the world. It’s produced in India, at an altitude of 1,800 metres,’ Fanti explained. Every week, a different variety of tea.

  Pierre filled the cups and added a cloud of milk, in the English style. Before the lesson there was always time to catch up with the latest news.

  ‘Have you read about the Djilas trial? Unbelievable, isn’t it? A month ago they make him president of the Yugoslav parliament, and now they’re dismissing him and throwing him out of the Party.’

  ‘I don’t read the paper very often, you know. But I’ve heard people talking about it a lot,’ and he pointed behind him at the big and very cumbersome radio. ‘There are strange things happening in Yugoslavia, that’s true. What does your father have to say on the subject?’

  ‘My father . . . my father doesn’t say anything. He knows Djilas, as a matter of fact. He might have something to say about it, but I haven’t heard from him for almost a year. He should have dropped us a line at Christmas, but there was nothing.’

  Fanti noticed Pierre’s expression. ‘A month’s delay could be down to the post, couldn’t it? Yugoslavia seems close, but you can never tell. That’s why I prefer pigeons.’