Steal You Away (16 page)

Hurry! It’s late
.

He looked at his watch.

Nine twenty. Oh, my God, it’s late. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! (It
makes no difference … I recognised you. Don’t kid yourself
.)

Hurry! Hurry!

He couldn’t have recognised him. It was impossible. He had been too far away. How could he? He wasn’t even wearing his glasses.

He had lost all feeling in his fingertips and his ears, and his calves were as hard as stones, but he had no intention of slowing down. Mud splashed on his face and clothes, but Pietro didn’t ease up.

Run! Ru … recognised you
.

He’d been bluffing, trying to scare him. To make him stop so that he could take him to the headmaster. But he hadn’t fallen for it. He wasn’t stupid.

The wind ballooned his jacket. His eyes watered.

Nearly home.

Graziano felt as if he had stepped into a horror film, one of those films where a poltergeist lifts objects up in the air and whirls them round. Except that nothing was whirling round in his living room, except for his head.

‘Mantovani … Mantovani … Mantovani …’ he kept gurgling as he sat there on the sofa.

Why?

He mustn’t think about it. Mustn’t think about what all this meant. He was like a climber hanging over a precipice.

He lifted the receiver and dialled the number again.

With all the telepathic force at his command he willed Erica to answer that bloody mobile. He had never wanted anything so badly in his life. And …

Toooo. Toooo. Toooo.

Huh? Line free! It works!

Toooo. Toooo. Toooo.

Answer! Damn you! Answer!

‘This is Erica Trettel’s voicemail. Leave a secret.’

Graziano was dumbfounded.

Her voicemail?

Then, trying to sound calm and not succeeding, he spoke. ‘Erica? It’s Graziano. I’m in Ischiano. Can you call me? Please. On my mobile. Immediately.’ He hung up.

He took a deep breath.

Had he said the right things? Should he have told her he knew about Mantovani? Should he call again and leave a more forthright message?

No. He should not. Definitely not.

He grabbed the receiver and called back.

‘Telecom Italia Mobile, the number you have dialled is unobtainable at present.’

Why wasn’t the voicemail working now? Was she playing games with him?

In his rage he started kicking the Flemish-style chest of drawers,
then collapsed exhausted into the armchair, his head in his hands.

At that moment Mrs Biglia entered the living room pushing a trolley laden with a soup tureen full of tortellini in broth, a serving dish containing ten different kinds of cheese, chicory dressed with lemon juice, boiled potatoes, sautéed kidneys with garlic and parsley and a Saint Honoré bulging with cream.

At the sight of it Graziano nearly threw up.

‘Uuuuunch. Bwooooooth,’ howled Mrs Biglia and turned on the television. Graziano ignored her.

‘Uuuuuuunch,’ she persisted.

‘I’m not hungry! And didn’t you take a vow of silence? If you’ve taken a vow of silence you have to keep quiet, for Christ’s sake. That’s breaking the rules. If you moan like a mongoloid you’ll go to hell,’ exploded Graziano, and slumped back on the armchair. His hair over his face.

The bitch has gone off with Mantovani
.

Then another voice, the voice of reason, made itself heard.
Wait.
Don’t be hasty. Maybe she just asked him for a lift. Or perhaps
it was a work assignment. Don’t worry, she’ll call you and you’ll
see that it’s all a misunderstanding. Relax
.

He began to hyperventilate, trying to calm himself.

‘Good evening everybody, from the Vigevani theatre in Riccione. Welcome to the eighth edition of Channel Five’s Grand Gala! This is the evening of the stars, the evening when the final awards are given …’

Graziano looked up.

On the TV they were showing the Grand Gala.

‘It’s going to be a long evening, during which we will award the TV Oscars,’ said the female presenter. A buxom blonde with a smile of twenty-four thousand teeth, every one of them gleaming. Beside her stood a portly tuxedoed man who was also smiling contentedly.

The camera panned along the front rows of the theatre. Men in tuxedos. Women revealing acres of thigh. And scores of major and minor celebrities. Even a couple of Hollywood actors and the odd foreign singer.

‘First of all,’ continued the blonde presenter, ‘a word about our generous sponsor, who has made all this possible.’ Applause. ‘Synthesis! The watch for people who know the value of time.’

The camera panned up over the blonde and the little fat man and glided in a perfect parabola over the heads of the VIPs to zoom in on a wrist wearing a magnificent gleaming Synthesis sports watch. The wrist was attached to a hand, and the hand was clamped round a black self-supporting stocking, and the stocking, in turn, veiled a woman’s thigh. Then the camera drew back to reveal who all this belonged to.

‘Erica! Mantovani!’ Graziano spluttered.

Erica wore a blue satin dress with a plunging neckline. She had taken her hair up casually, allowing a few locks to dangle, emphasising her long neck. Beside her sat Andrea Mantovani, wearing a tuxedo. A fair-haired man, with a large nose, small round spectacles and the smile of a contented pig. He continued to keep the clamp on Erica’s thigh. As if to say, this is my property. His was the classic attitude of a guy who has just copulated and is now using his paw to mark out his territory.

‘And now a commercial!’ announced the female presenter.

A commercial for Pampers.

‘I’ll ram that hand up your arse, you bastard,’ roared Graziano, baring his teeth.

‘Eeeeeeiaa?’ asked Mrs Biglia.

Graziano didn’t bother to answer. He picked up the telephone and retired to his bedroom.

He dialled the number of her mobile at the speed of light. He intended to leave her a clear and simple message: ‘I’m going to kill you, you bitch.’

‘Hallo, Mariapia! Did you see me? Well, how do you like my dress?’ Erica’s voice.

Graziano was speechless.

‘Hallo? Hallo? Mariapia, is that you?’

Graziano recovered his composure. ‘No, it’s not Mariapia. It’s Graziano. I’ve just …’ Then he decided it was better to feign ignorance. ‘Where are you?’ he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘Graziano … ?’ Erica was surprised, but then seemed delighted. ‘Graziano! It’s so nice to speak to you!’

‘Where are you?’ he repeated coldly.

‘I’ve got some wonderful news. Can I ring you back later?’

‘No, you can’t, I’m not at home and my mobile’s running down.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’

‘No, tell me now.’

‘Okay. But I can’t talk for long.’ Her tone had suddenly changed, from radiant to irritated, very irritated, then immediately became radiant again. ‘I got the job! I still can’t believe it. They chose me at the audition. I’d already done the audition and I was getting ready to go home when along came Andrea …’

‘Andrea who?’

‘Andrea Mantovani! He sees me and says: ‘We must try this girl, I like the look of her.’ Those were his very words. So they gave me a second audition. I read a script and danced a bit and they gave me the job. Oh, Graziano, I’m so thrilled!
I GOT THE JOB! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? I’M GOING TO BE THE SHOWGIRL ON
YOU
REAP WHAT YOU SOW
!’

‘Oh.’ Graziano was as stiff as a frozen hake.

‘Aren’t you pleased?’

‘Yes, of course. And when are you coming here?’

‘I don’t know … We’re starting rehearsals tomorrow … Soon … I hope.’

‘I’ve got everything organised. We’re expecting you. My mother’s cooking and I’ve told my friends the news …’

‘What news? …’

‘That we’re getting married.’

‘Listen, can we discuss this tomorrow? The commercial break’s just ending. I must hang up.’

‘Don’t you want to marry me any more?’ He had just stabbed himself in the side.

‘Can we discuss it tomorrow?’

Now, at last, Graziano’s anger had reached its limit, saturation point. It could have filled an Olympic swimming pool. He was wilder than a stallion in a rodeo, than a Formula One driver who
is just about to win the world championship when his engine breaks down on the final bend, than a student whose girlfriend accidentally deletes his Ph.D. thesis from his computer, than a patient who’s just had the wrong kidney taken out by mistake.

He was beside himself with fury.

‘You bitch! You whore! Who are you trying to kid? I saw you on TV! With that poof Mantovani in the middle of a crowd of jerks. You said you were coming to join me here. But instead you preferred to let that poof screw you. You bitch! That’s the only reason he gave you the job, you fool! You must be really thick if you don’t realise that. You can’t even stand in front of a TV camera, the only thing you’re any good at is sucking cocks.’

There was a moment’s silence.

Graziano allowed himself a smile. He had crushed her.

But the reply came, as violent as a hurricane across the Caribbean. ‘You bastard. I don’t know why I ever went out with you. I must have been out of my mind. I’d throw myself under a train rather than marry you. You want to know something? You bring bad luck. As soon as you went away I got a job. You’re a jinx. You just wanted to drag me down, you wanted me to come to that lousy dump. Never. I despise you, and everything you represent. The way you dress. The bullshit you talk in that know-all tone of yours. You don’t know anything. You’re just an ageing, failed drug dealer. Get out of my life. If you dare call me again, if you dare come and see me, I swear to God I’ll pay someone to smash your face in. The show’s starting again. Goodbye. Oh, and one last thing, that poof Mantovani has got a bigger one than you.’

And she hung up.

At first sight Fig-Tree Cottage might have been mistaken for a junk yard. What created this impression was all the scrap metal piled up around the farmhouse.

An old tractor, a blue Giulietta, a Philco fridge and a doorless Seicento lay rusting among the thistles, chicory and wild fennel on either side of the gate made of two double-bedsprings.

Behind all this was a muddy yard strewn with pot-holes and puddles. To the right was a heap of gravel which Mr Moroni had been given by a neighbour and which no one had ever bothered to spread. To the left, a long shed, supported by tall metal posts, which served as a shelter for the new tractor, the Panda and Mimmo’s motocross bike. In late summer, when it was filled with bales of hay, Pietro would climb up and search for pigeons’ nests among the rafters.

The house was a two-storey cottage, with a red-tiled roof and the wooden beams stripped of their paint by the cold and heat. In many places the plaster had fallen away revealing the bricks, which were green with moss.

The northern side was hidden by a cascade of ivy.

The Moronis lived on the first floor and had converted the loft to make two bedrooms and a bathroom. One bedroom for them, the other for Pietro and his brother Mimmo. On the first floor there was a large kitchen with a fireplace, which also served as a dining room. Behind the kitchen, a pantry. On the ground floor, the storeroom. Here were the tools, the carpentry workshop and a few barrels and casks which were full of oil, when the few olive trees they possessed were not afflicted by some disease.

Everyone called it Fig-Tree Cottage because of the enormous tree that spread its twisted branches over the roof. Hidden behind two cork oaks were the chicken run, the sheep fold and the dog’s enclosure. A long asymmetrical pen made of wood, wire netting, old tyres and corrugated iron.

Among the weeds you could just make out a neglected orchard and a long concrete trough full of stagnant water, reeds, mosquito larvae and tadpoles. Pietro had put some minnows in it that he had caught in the lagoon.

In summer they had a lot of young and he would give them to Gloria, who would put them in her fishpond.

Pietro left his bicycle beside his brother’s motorbike, ran to the dog’s enclosure and heaved his first sigh of relief that evening.

Zagor was lying on the ground in a corner in the rain. When he saw Pietro, he raised his head listlessly, wagged his tail and then let it fall back again limply between his legs.

He was a big dog, with a large square head, mournful black eyes and somewhat rickety hind legs. According to Mimmo, he was a cross between an Abruzzese sheepdog and a German shepherd. But who could say for sure? Certainly he was as tall as an Abruzzese and had the typical black-and-tan coat of the German shepherd. At any rate, he stank to high heaven and was covered in ticks. And he was absolutely crazy. There was something amiss in the brain of that hairy beast. Maybe it was all the beatings and kicks he had received, maybe it was the chain, maybe it was some hereditary defect. He had been beaten so often that Pietro wondered how he could still stand up and move his tail.

What have you got to wag your tail about?

And he never learned. Not a thing. If you locked him up in his pen at night, he would escape and come crawling back next morning with his tail between his legs, his coat caked in blood and tufts of fur between his teeth.

He loved killing. The smell of blood made him wild and happy. At night he would roam the hills howling and attacking any suitably sized animal: sheep, hens, rabbits, calves, cats, even wild boars.

Pietro had seen the film of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde on television and had been taken aback. He was just like Zagor. They had the same disease. Angelic in the daytime and monsters by night.

‘Animals like that have got to be put down. Once they’ve tasted blood they become like drug addicts, you can hit them as hard as you like but as soon as they get the chance they’ll escape and do it again, see? Don’t let his eyes fool you, he’s a faker, he seems friendly enough now, but later … And he can’t even keep guard. He’s got to be put down. He’s just too much trouble. I won’t make
him suffer,’ Mr Moroni had said, pointing his shotgun at the dog as he lay in a corner, worn out by a night of madness. ‘Look what you’ve done …’