Blood Rain - 7 (12 page)

‘Carla?’

‘Papà!
Where have you been? I was worried about you.’

‘I’m in Rome.’

‘What’s this music?’

‘Music?’

‘Muzak. Elevator music’

‘I don’t hear anything.’

‘Well, I certainly do. So you’re in Rome? Why?’

‘I had to leave suddenly.’

‘Can you speak up, please? This music …’

‘I had to come to Rome. Unexpectedly. A personal matter.’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, I see.’

‘I don’t know when I’ll be back, exactly. I’m taking a few days’ leave.’

Quite apart from the underlay of soft pop, the connection was poor, fading in and out, but always dim and drained.

‘What’s the weather like there?’ a voice like her father’s asked.

‘Much the same. And in Rome?’

‘Sandy.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Listen, it may be a while before I get back. Will you be all right?’

‘Of course. I just wish you were here, though. They searched my room.’

‘What? Who?’

‘I don’t know. But someone has been here. They left a message on my computer.’

‘Your what?’

‘My laptop. My whole life’s on it, and someone has been messing about with it. I’ve got back-ups, of course, but…’

‘Back-up lives?’

Carla laughed.

‘Sorry, I forgot you don’t speak the language.’

‘Look, Carla, if someone broke into your apartment, call the police. I’ll give you a number. A name, too. Baccio Sinico. He’s a good man and he’ll…’

‘I don’t have time now. We’re going away for the weekend and I’m just about to leave. I’ll do it on Monday. Will you be back by then?’

‘Going where?’

‘To Taormina. It’s supposed to be lovely, and the person I’m going with knows this wonderful hotel. It’s quite high up, too, so perhaps it’ll be cool. It’s difficult for me here, Dad. I haven’t really made any friends yet, and it’ll be nice to get out and meet some people.’

A pause.

‘Well, have fun.’

‘You too. When will you be back?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know. Look after yourself.’

‘You too, Dad. After all, as you told me that time in Alba, you’re the only one I’ll ever have.’

Her voice broke slightly on the last phrase. She clicked the phone shut and turned back to the half-packed suitcase resting on the bed. Then she pulled a few more clothes off their hangers and folded them neatly into the suitcase between layers of tissue paper. She had heard that Taormina was an international resort for the rich and beautiful, and you never knew who you might run into in a place like that, maybe even Mr Right.

By now, Carla had a strong suspicion that Corinna Nunziatella wanted her to be more than just a ‘girlfriend’. The scenario Carla had in mind consisted of a few martinis too many at a bar, followed by a slow, delicious dinner at a restaurant, a walk back through the twilight to this fabulous hotel, and then the pitch. Well, fair enough. She had never made love with a woman, but there was a first time for everything and she was all grown up now. Anyway, she was planning to pay for her side of things, so she could always just say no. Or not, depending.

It was only when she closed the case and lifted it down off the bed that Carla realized she was going to have to carry the damn thing all the way. It was all very well for Corinna to tell her it was just a couple of kilometres along a very pretty path with classical associations.
She
had a car. Carla thought of calling the judge and explaining the problem, and then had a better idea.

Outside in the streets, even at twenty past nine, the heat was starting to gain the upper hand, although barely flexing the gigantic muscles which would throttle the city by noon. By the time she reached the corner of the block, Carla’s suitcase felt as though it was filled with bricks. It took another ten minutes to flag down a passing taxi.

‘Do you know a hotel called
I Ciclopi
at Aci Trezza?’ she asked.

He nodded.

‘Hop in.’

‘No, it’s not for me. But I need this case taken there and left at the desk. It’s to be collected by someone called Carla Arduini. Do you understand?’

The driver punctiliously estimated the distance to Aci Trezza and back on his map, worked out the fare on an electronic calculator and refused Carla’s offer of a tip. It took her a huge effort of will not to climb into the air-conditioned cab there and then, but Corinna had told her to walk, so walk she would. With regret, she handed her suitcase and the money to the driver, and watched the taxi drive away.

The usual elderly crowd had gathered at the bus stop: women whose nubile fruitfulness had shrivelled up like a sun-dried tomato, and men who looked diminished in a different way, plucked by age or ill-health from the vine of productive and meaningful labour. The only people in Carla’s age-group were a pair of punk-goths with spiked hair and extensive body-piercing, and an overweight
figlio di mamma
in a blazer, jeans and yellow pullover.

The 36 bus finally arrived, and Carla rode down to Piazza Giovanni XXIII, where she bought a ticket on the AST service north along the coast. Thirty minutes later, she got off in Aci Castello, a small bathing resort dominated by the Norman castle for which it was named. A lot of other people, mostly young, also got out here, all kitted out for a day at the seaside.

Carla followed them down to the sea, along the wooden walkway set out over the rocks and on to the rough path leading north. Here, outside the city, the bright sun seemed a benign presence, while the sea breeze was blissfully invigorating. People swam and sprawled on the lava rocks, while itinerant salesmen with flawless skin the colour of cooking chocolate hawked contraband gadgets and faked designer goods in a lazy, unthreatening way, as though they had no interest in making any money but were just passing the time.

Carla stopped to chat with one of them and haggled casually over a shoulder bag she quite liked but had no intention of buying and then carrying all the way along the coast. As she turned away from the
vucomprà
she noticed the man standing beside the path twenty metres or so behind her, seemingly looking out to sea. He was wearing jeans, a canary-yellow pullover and a blue blazer with gilt buttons. The outfit was as conspicuous and inappropriate for a day at the beach as it had been at the bus stop outside her apartment an hour earlier.

Carla walked quickly on for some time, then sat down on one of the benches which were placed along the path, overlooking the
Isole Ciclopi:
the tall, jagged rocks which did indeed look as though some angry giant had just tossed them down from the smouldering bulk of Etna, like a child wanting to see how big a splash he could make. Glancing behind to her right, she noted that Blue Blazer had suddenly felt the need to rest too. There was no other bench nearby, so he was sitting on a ledge of the solidified lava flow, dusting the designated spot fastidiously before entrusting it with the seat of his Levi 501s.

Carla got up and continued on her way, pausing after a few minutes to look at the view behind her. Blue Blazer had also decided that it was time to get a move on, but now he too was brought to a halt, apparently by some problem involving his shoes. When Carla reached the next miniature headland, she left the path and walked to the tip of the rocks razoring out into the sea. Turning as though to take in the whole panorama, she discovered that her understudy was admiring the view of Etna on the other side of the path, while making a call on his mobile phone.

Carla squared her shoulders and walked quickly back to the path. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time or she’d arrive late. On the other hand, Corinna had been very specific about taking care that she was not followed, and clearly she
was
being followed. Confrontation, she decided, was the only way to resolve the situation. She hurried on along the path, which sloped up to a low rise formed by one of the jagged promontories thrust out into the sea. As soon as she was out of sight on the other side of this, she stopped. There was no one on the path ahead except for an elderly gentleman inspecting the seabirds through a pair of binoculars. A few moments later, Blue Blazer appeared at the top of the rise, panting slightly. He froze as Carla moved resolutely towards him.

‘Why are you following me?’ she demanded.

The man made a vague, sheepish gesture.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t try to deny it! You took the same bus I did, just down the street from my apartment building, then the AST service to Aci Castello, and ever since then you’ve been following me along this path, stopping whenever I stop and …’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ the man protested in a panicky tone. ‘I’m just out for a walk, that’s all, the same as you. This is a public path, lots of people come here. You’re not the only one allowed, you know.’

A shadow fell across the lava cinders between them.

‘May I be of any assistance,
signorina?’

Carla turned. It was the elderly bird-watcher. He had a shock of carefully groomed silver hair, an elaborately waxed moustache, and was wearing a linen suit against which a pair of Braun binoculars dangled from their leather strap.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Carla replied warmly. ‘This man has been following me ever since I left home this morning.’

‘That’s not true!’ Blue Blazer protested. ‘She’s imagining things. It’s a complete coincidence. I haven’t done anything wrong!’

The older man walked over to him at a deliberate pace. His face had become very grim.

‘Not yet, perhaps,’ he said in a low, chilling voice. ‘You were biding your time, weren’t you? Waiting for a suitable opportunity to present itself, and to get up enough courage to make your move. We all know about people like you, my friend. We know how to deal with them, too.’

He added three short sentences in Sicilian. Carla could not understand the words, but there was no mistaking their lapidary brutality. Blue Blazer took several paces back and started to tremble. He mumbled something incoherent, then turned and walked off rapidly, almost running, in the direction from which he’d come.

‘Allow me to apologize unreservedly for that unpleasantness,
signorina,’
the elderly man remarked in a courtly tone.

Carla smiled.

‘There’s no reason for you to apologize. On the contrary, thank you for your assistance.’

The man shook his head with an expression of disgust.

‘You are from the north, I think. Yes? To come here and have this horrible experience, this appalling breach of every law of Sicilian courtesy … I feel deeply ashamed,
signorina
, but the cruel fact is that nowadays there are scum everywhere. At one time, a man like that wouldn’t have dared show his face out of doors. By the same token, of course, a lovely young woman such as yourself wouldn’t have dreamt of going for a walk unaccompanied in an isolated spot such as this. But there we are! The old rules have broken down and the new ones have yet to take effect.’

Carla nodded briskly. Apparently she had evaded her amateurish shadower only to fall into the clutches of yet another elderly bore.

‘Well, thanks for getting rid of him. Now I must be off or I’ll be late for my appointment.’

‘Of course, of course! How far do you have to go?’

‘To Aci Trezza.’

‘Why, that’s where I live myself! It’s no more than ten minutes’ walk from here. Allow me to accompany you,
signorina
. No, no, I insist! I was on my way home anyway, and after that disagreeable incident I wouldn’t feel right letting you go alone. Have you been along here before? I come out every morning, to get some exercise and study the bird life. There’s a really quite amazing variety of species to be seen, some native, others migratory …’

Taking Carla’s arm, he led the way along the path, keeping up a continuous commentary on the fauna and flora of the littoral, about which he seemed oppressively well-informed. As soon as they reached the outskirts of Aci Trezza, Carla explained that she was meeting someone at
I Ciclopi
, and took leave of her courtly companion, although not before he had given her directions to the hotel as well as one of his cards, and insisted that the next time she was there she should contact him.

There was no sign of Corinna at the restaurant, but Carla’s suitcase had arrived. She reclaimed it and toyed with a
cappuccino
for twenty minutes, then walked outside. By now it was eleven forty-five, just fifteen minutes from the time when she had been instructed to give up and go home. It was deliciously warm yet airy in the shade of the huge awning. The only sounds were the slushy static of the wavelets on the rocks, the occasional clank of pots and pans in the kitchens, and the subliminal growl of a helicopter circling somewhere overhead.

‘Signorina Arduini?’

It was a uniformed waiter, professionally deferential.

‘Yes?’

‘There is a phone call for you. This way, please.’

She followed the man across the lobby to a table with a telephone. The waiter dialled zero and passed the receiver to Carla.

‘Hello?’

‘Carla?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s me. Leave the hotel and turn left into Via San Leonarbello. At number sixty-three you’ll find a green Nissan. It’s unlocked. Follow the written instructions on the driver’s seat.’

The line went dead.

Via San Leonarbello turned out to be an alley of single-storey fishermen’s houses, most of which seemed to have been converted into holiday homes. Sure enough, a green Nissan saloon was parked outside number sixty-three. Carla glanced along the street, then opened the passenger door and got in. A piece of paper with writing lay on the driver’s seat.

KEYS IN GLOVE COMPARTMENT.
DRIVE TO END OF STREET, TURN LEFT.
STOP OPPOSITE SPAR GROCERY.
KEEP ENGINE RUNNING.

Carla sighed sourly. If she’d had any idea what was involved, she would never have agreed to accompany Corinna on this stupid weekend outing to Taormina. All this games-playing was beginning to get on her nerves. But it was too late to back out now. She put her suitcase in the back of the car, moved over to the driver’s seat and drove off.

The grocery store, one of the ubiquitous Spar chain, was easy enough to find, but there was no space to park anywhere on the narrow street. Carla drew up opposite the store, blasted the horn and consulted her watch. All right, Corinna, she thought. You’ve got sixty seconds exactly, then I dump the car and get the next bus back to Catania. She had laundry to do and several long-overdue letters to write, and there was the new Nanni Moretti film which she’d been meaning to see for some time. She’d loved
Caro Diario
, and even if this one wasn’t as good, the prospect of a few hours in an air-conditioned cinema was a powerful inducement.

The passenger door opened and Corinna Nunziatella got in, barely recognizable in a man’s suit, shirt and tie. Her face was obscured as before by her aviator sunglasses, while her cropped hair was almost invisible beneath a large straw hat.

‘Go!’ she said urgently

‘Go where?’

‘Just go! I’ll give you directions later.’

Carla put the Nissan in gear and drove to the end of the street.

‘Left here,’ Corinna Nunziatella told her. ‘Now right. Do a U-turn in the middle of the block, then right again at the lights. Run the red, there are no traffic police round here. Do you like my outfit?’

Carla smiled distractedly.

‘It’s, er … interesting.’

‘This car belongs to a friend. They have four altogether, so she won’t miss it. The hardest part was getting out of the house without my escort spotting me. Hence the disguise.’

‘Won’t it raise a few eyebrows at the hotel?’

Corinna laughed.

‘Not in Taormina! They’ve seen everything there. It’s always been a sort of extra-territorial enclave here in Sicily, a place where none of the usual rules apply. As long as your money holds out, no one cares what you do. Left here across the railway tracks, then sharp right and follow the signs to the motorway.’

She glanced playfully at Carla.

‘Anyway, I happen to think I look rather fetching, so there. And you? No problems?’

Carla swayed her head slowly from side to side, indicating that this was not precisely the case.

‘I was followed. But I’m pretty sure it was just some creep who lives with his mother and wanted to look at my legs. He was much too obvious to be a professional. Anyway, this old man who was out watching birds along the coast got rid of him for me.’

To Carla’s surprise, Corinna insisted on her recounting the entire story, detail by detail. The older woman’s face grew grimmer and grimmer.

‘A classic sacrifice,’ she remarked when Carla had finished. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, but this is not good news. It confirms that they’re on to you as well.’

‘Who are?’

‘That “creep” you say was following you, the conspicuous way he was dressed and acting was quite deliberate. With someone like me they would have been more subtle, but they knew you weren’t used to the rules of the game, so they went completely over the top. You were
meant
to spot him and become suspicious. That was the whole point. Then, at just the right psychological moment, along comes this chivalrous, inoffensive slightly tedious old-world gentleman who promptly rids you of your ostentatious tail. You’re naturally so grateful and relieved that you’re not going to suspect
him.’

‘But he wasn’t following me, Corinna!’

‘Didn’t you just tell me that he walked the whole way to Aci Trezza with you, and that you then asked him for directions to
I Ciclopi?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Did you see him after that?’

‘No!’

‘He didn’t by any chance follow you to this car?’

‘Of course not! At least, I don’t think so. I didn’t see him.’

‘Are you sure?’

Carla did not answer. They drove along a dead-straight road between rows of tall palm trees, their trunks trimmed, rising on either side like exotically verdant telephone poles. Then a junction loomed ahead, marked by a large green arrow marked A18.

‘Turn right here on to the motorway,’ said Corinna. ‘Follow the signs to Messina.’

‘Messina? But I thought we were

‘I suggest that you concentrate on the driving and leave the thinking to me,
cara,’
Corinna remarked crisply.

Carla said nothing. After a few moments silence, Corinna sighed.

‘I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’ve been trying to work out what to do. If I went by the book, I’d cancel the whole outing right now.’

She glanced girlishly at Carla.

‘But I can’t. To give up the prospect of this gorgeous weekend with you, all because of some paranoid fears which I’ve almost certainly imagined …’

‘You mean this man who was supposed to have been following me?’

Corinna Nunziatella shook her head.

‘It’s not just that. That business yesterday for example. It’s obvious they were sending a message to me through you. Just to take one aspect of the thing, the Hotel Zagarella is a notorious symbol of Mafia power, built by Ignazio and Nino Salvo, cousins from one of the top families who later cornered the tax-collection monopoly for the whole island, thanks to their friends in the regional government. They became obscenely rich as a result, but the Zagarella was almost entirely financed by public money from the government’s
Cassa per il Mezzogiorno
fund, supposedly created to stimulate economic development in the south. And the hotel’s symbolic status was confirmed once and for all in 1979, when Giulio Andreotti, then prime minister, gave a speech at a rally there, surrounded by just about every high-ranking political
mafioso
in Palermo.’

They were on the motorway now, gliding north with the other traffic heading towards the Straits of Messina and the ferry crossing to the continent of Europe. Corinna Nunziatella lit a cigarette snatched from a rumpled pack on the dashboard.

‘So when I’m told that you’ve been invited to lunch at the Zagarella by three men who claimed to represent the regional government, and who made it quite clear that they were aware of our relationship,’ she continued, blasting out smoke, ‘I don’t have to be a genius to understand the intended message.’

‘Which is?’

“‘Be careful. We’ve got our eye on you. You’re alone, you can’t trust anyone, our people are everywhere. Take heed of this warning. Next time there may not be one.’“

‘And you think they really mean it?’

‘Of course they mean it! They killed Mino Pecorelli and Giuseppe Impastato and Pio Delia Torre. They killed Giorgio Ambrosio and Michele Sindona and Boris Giuliano and Emanuele Basile and General Dalla Chiesa and his wife. They killed Cesare Terranora and Rococo Chinnici and Ciaccio Montalto. They killed Falcone and Borsellino. And they killed my mother and hundreds more like her, maybe thousands …’

She opened the window and tossed out the half-smoked cigarette with a gesture of disgust.

‘Well, they’re not going to get me!’

Perturbed by the intensity of Corinna’s voice, Carla took her eyes off the traffic for a moment to glance at her companion.

‘How do you mean, they killed your mother? The other evening you told me that she was still alive.’

‘No, I didn’t. You asked, and I replied, “I suppose you could say that she’s alive.” She’s alive, but shut up in an institution. A private one, mind you, and relatively pleasant, but an asylum nevertheless. She finally cracked when my father was killed in a particularly unpleasant way by a rival clan. Since then she will only speak English. She babbles about taking the train down to London and making a new start.’

She broke off, shaking her head, and patted Carla’s left knee lightly.

‘I’m sorry to bore you with all this ghastly personal stuff,
cara
, but you can’t understand me without it. For better or for worse, it’s made me what I am. I realized very early on that nothing could be done without power. The only power open to me, as a Sicilian woman, was the power of the state institutions, so I decided to study law and join the judiciary. The Italian state isn’t as powerful as the Mafia, as we know to our cost, but the balance has already shifted a long way. We’re ahead at half-time, but the match is far from over. The important thing now is to make sure that they don’t try to change the rules. But I’ll carry on even if they do. It’s a personal commitment. The only way to defeat the patriarchal structure of
mafiosità
is to attack it through the medium of an equally patriarchal authority whose interests happen to be in conflict with those which destroyed my mother.’

She laughed suddenly, and turned to Carla.

‘And now I’ll shut up about the whole business for the rest of the weekend!’ she announced gaily. ‘The only things you’ll be able to get me to talk about are clothes and jewellery and shoes and food and office gossip and celebrity scandals. I shall have breakfast in bed and lunch by the pool and dinner in a fabulous fish restaurant I know down by the sea. In short, I plan to behave like the frivolous, trivial, shallow slut that I’ve always secretly wanted to be. What about you?’

Carla gave her a dazzling smile.

‘That sounds perfect. I’ll just try to keep up with you.’

‘There’s the Giardini turn-off,’ said Corinna, pointing to the signed exit. ‘We take the next one. It’s marked Taormina. Take it slowly. It gets quite steep and narrow once you’re off the
autostrada
. I hope you like the hotel.’

‘Have you stayed there before?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alone?’

‘No, not alone. This exit coming up.’

Carla signalled her turn.

‘So do you do this sort of thing quite often?’ she asked.

‘Not nearly as often as I’d like. It’s a survival strategy. Sicily is a pressure cooker. It’s not that life here is really that dangerous. Arguably less so, in fact, for most people, than in Rome or Milan. It’s a process of attrition. You’re “on” the whole time, particularly if you’re a woman. Everything you do or don’t do is noted down and reported back. There’s literally no such thing as privacy. We don’t even have a word for it.’

Carla turned off on to a looping, heavily graded road which zigzagged laboriously uphill towards a perched town which was presumably Taormina. A motorcycle had turned off the motorway right behind her, and was now making aggressive but ineffectual attempts to overtake despite the steep gradient. The two men on it wore full-body leather suits with white and red stripes and seemed to be having an animated conversation over an intercom system built into their space-suit-type helmets.

‘And then there’s the insular mentality,’ Corinna was saying. ‘A sort of passive-aggressive provincialism. Rome is only an hour away by plane, but it might as well be on another planet. Even in Reggio di Calabria you breathe more easily. Seen from Palermo or Catania, the Straits of Messina look wider than the Atlantic. Nothing that happens over there is of any more than marginal significance, depending on the extent to which it might tip the balance of power here.’

At the bend ahead, the road widened to a point which would allow Carla room to let the leather-suited bikers pass. She slowed down and signalled her intention to pull over. The bright red Moto Guzzi at once revved up and started to overtake. As it drew alongside, the passenger on the pillion raised a cloth-wrapped bundle which he was holding on his knees. There was a loud banging noise, as though the engine was about to stall, and pieces of glass started flying around inside the car. Corinna turned to Carla, who was struggling to keep the car on the road despite the rash of pockmarks erupting across her chest and shoulders. The man on the motorcycle produced a rectangular package which he lobbed through the shattered side-window of the Nissan, as though returning some mislaid possession to its rightful owner, just as the car veered off to the left, running over the verge and continuing on its way through the olive grove on the vertiginous hillside, riding normally at first, despite the gradient, but eventually turning sideways and rolling over.

The explosion almost immediately afterwards destroyed a
centenario
olive tree which had been planted in July 1860 to commemorate Garibaldi’s decisive defeat of the Bourbon forces at the battle of Milazzo and the unification of Sicily with the nascent kingdom of Italy which soon ensued. But there was no one left in Taormina who recalled this fact and the tree had almost stopped cropping, so the incident was of no real importance.