The American (37 page)

‘
Un momenta, signora!
’ I called and straightened my clothes, running my fingers through my hair and using the glass on one of the paintings as a mirror to make myself look less tousled, more respectable. Signora Prasca knew I was an artist, but even bohemians have to maintain standards: she told me so, once. I unlatched the door.

She was standing with her back to the door as if expecting me to appear in my pyjamas or, worse, all but naked. No doubt she had had a similar experience with the previous occupant, the Lothario.

‘
Buon giorno, signora
,’ I greeted her.

Half turning with a coyness more suited to an innocent girl, she noticed I was fully dressed and faced me, holding out her hand in which she grasped an envelope.

‘
La posta?
’ I enquired. ‘So soon?’

She shook her head.

‘
No! La posta
. . .’

Her empty hand vibrated slightly in the air, dismissing my question. The post did not usually arrive until after ten in the morning. What was more, she never brought the mail to my door.

‘
Un appunto
.’

‘
Grazie, signora
,’ I thanked her, curious as to why she should have come all the way up the building. She bobbed her head as a maid might and scuttled off towards the stairs.

The envelope was unstamped and bore no address, just one line in cursive, neat script – ‘
Signor E. Farfalla
.’ I did not recognize the hand: the initial E threw me. It might be from Clara. It might be from the shadow-dweller.

At the thought of him, my mind filled once more with the uneasiness of my night’s slouched sleep. I tore the envelope open with disregard for the contents. The letter was written on heavy, cream laid paper of almost book weight. There was an elaborate watermark in the single sheet which had been folded crisply in two.

My Dear Friend
, I read,
I am returned to the town, my relative now recovered somewhat from her ailing, and have received your beautiful painting and most moving letter. Come and see me. We should talk, as man to man. Or maybe as man to priest. But let this not ‘put you off’. I am in the church until noon
. It was signed
Fr. Ben
.

Refolding the letter, I let it drop to the settle where I had spent the night. I stretched and looked out of the windows, across the valley. The sun was well up, swifts or martins soaring in the air, the shadows beginning to shorten. Over the edge of the town I could see a raptor of indefinable species riding a thermal thrown up by the medieval wall which remained standing in that quarter. As the bird turned, I could just note the upturn of the tips of the wings and could imagine the individual feathers spread out like fingers, gripping the updraughting currents.

Going to my bedroom, I stripped off my rumpled clothes and took a long, soothing shower, the warm water sluicing over me and wiping away not only the sweat of the restless hours but also the dull pain in my back. I lathered myself thoroughly with shower gel and shampooed my hair, towelling it dry. Then I dressed in fresh clothes and slipped on a comfortable linen jacket. Before I left the apartment, I checked the Walther. It was clean and shiny, looking like a toy gun rather than a deadly weapon. I smelled it, the sweet perfume of the oil lingering in my nostrils as I closed the door and tested the handle.

The streets were busy as I made my way towards the long flight of steps leading up to the church. As I walked, keeping an eye open for the shadow-dweller, I pondered upon what he was packing, what piece the movies or the television or the gun catalogues had recommended to him. It did not matter to me: I was only curious in a professional way. I had had years of practice with the Walther, knew it as well as a journalist of old knew his ancient battered Olympia, its every quirk, its metallic foibles, its impetuosities and its limitations.

At the bottom of the marble steps I paused and gazed up. From the angle of the hill, it looked as if the facade of the church was leaning backwards into the sky, reclining like a tired old man resting on a bench in the Parco della Resistenza dell’ 8 Settembre.

The steps were strewn with the usual litter of central Italy: Kodak and Fuji film packets, the rind of a section of melon, cigarette butts and a few soft-drinks cartons. I saw no hypodermic needles, but there was a cracked and filthy plastic syringe lying jammed between two marble paving slabs.

At the top, I halted and looked along the row of cars parked at the kerb. So far as I could see, there was no blue Peugeot 309.

The morning’s activity before the church was in full swing. The puppeteer was giving his show to a group of about a dozen children, behind whom stood adults. All were tourists. The puppet in mid-stage as I stopped was a brigand with a tricorne hat upon his head and a cutlass sewn into his hand. He was chattering in high-pitched Italian. Another puppet popped up from below. He was the hero, come to slay the brigand, and he also had a cutlass. The two puppets duelled, the puppeteer cleverly interspersing his dialogue with steely clicks and clashes from his tongue. The children stood spellbound by the action.

The flautist was nowhere to be seen, but the juggler was commencing his act with three eggs, one of which he pretended every so often to drop. His companion was halfway through a chalk sketch on one of the paving stones. I stood over it and gazed down: she had done the outlines of what was virtually the view from the loggia and was now colouring in the sky.

On the steps of the church was a party of tourists with a guide who was pointing out the architectural merits of the building. As I watched them, they started to file in through the door. I crossed the street and was about to follow them when a strident voice called out behind me.

The time had come. I knew it would and was, deep in my mind, annoyed it had arrived in such a public place. It did not bring any emotion to the surface of my being. Emotion ruins everything and makes the wits slow.

‘Hey! Mr Butterfly!’

The voice was almost as high-pitched as the puppeteer’s, somehow effeminate and, for the briefest of instances, I thought it might be Dindina’s: it had the same stridency as her voice during the fight with Clara. The accent was American, unmistakably upper-crust. It cut through the sounds of the tourists, traffic and the town.

I turned quickly and glanced up and down the street. There was still no blue Peugeot in sight and nothing seemed out of order except that, pulled in to the kerb between the puppeteer and the no-parking sign to which the flautist tied his umbrella, was a dark grey Fiat Stilo. It was illegally parked and the driver was sitting in it but this did not arouse my suspicions, for such a sight is commonplace in Italy.

Then I noticed the engine was idling. I looked more closely. It had a registration plate from Pescara but these are not uncommon in the region: people from Pescara have houses in the mountains hereabouts. Yet on the windscreen, in the centre and next to the registration documents, was a little yellow disc.

My hand was in my pocket, my fingers snug around the Walther.

‘Hey! Mr Butterfly!’ the voice shouted again, lower in tone, more controlled now.

It was the driver of the Fiat. I could not see him clearly, for he was in the car and I was in the sunlight.

I did not reply. I wanted to shade my eyes against the sun.

The car door opened and he stood up. Now I could see him at a range of about twenty metres, his slim torso and brown hair trimmed short. He was wearing the designer-cut, stone-washed jeans he had had on when first I saw him, a loose brown jacket over a cream shirt. It might, I thought, have been silk.

‘You. Mr Butterfly,’ he called.

It was as if he was not too sure and, for a moment, I felt like bluffing it out, turning my back on him as if I had not understood, had mistaken the first call. But this would not drive him away, it would only prolong the business.

I still did not answer him. I just nodded my head.

‘You son of a bitch!’ he yelled more loudly. ‘You goddamn useless son of a bitch!’

‘What do you want?’ I called back.

He seemed to think for a moment before answering, ‘I want your fucking ass, you incompetent bastard.’ The voice was in pitch again. ‘You bastard!’ it repeated.

He was definitely American. Now I knew, could tell from his pronunciation of
bastard
, the long first
a
like the short bleat of a sheep. His voice was strangely vaguely familiar, too. I tried to place it, give a name to it, but I could not.

His bellowing caught the attention of the tourists, who ignored the puppeteer and the juggler and looked around at the disturbance. An alternative entertainment was commencing.

‘You have been following me. Why?’

He made no response and a taxi drove by between us, momentarily blocking him from my view. My hand took the Walther out of my pocket.

In the two seconds it took the taxi to go by, he stepped free of the door of the hired Fiat and as he came into my view again I saw he had a sub-machine gun in his hands, holding it at the waist. The sun was bright and the gun pointed at me: I thought it was a Sterling except that it had a telescopic sight mounted on it.

As if my attention was focusing through a lens, I saw his finger tighten and I threw myself to one side. There was a quick burst of popping explosions and the rending sound of splintering wood. Nothing more. The noises of the day continued unaffected.

The Walther fired as if independent of any action I could make. The shadow-dweller ducked as if he could see the bullet coming, swung the sub-machine gun and fired another brief burst. I heard the buzz of spent rounds and the crack of the muzzle but not the retorts of the discharges.

Rolling along the steps, I spread my legs, faced him and fired again. Two shots. One smashed the Fiat windscreen, the other I saw penetrate the rear door just beside the shadow-dweller’s leg. He flinched and was momentarily off balance. I rolled back again.

Now there were screams, people shouting and shrieking, footsteps running to and fro. The puppeteer’s kiosk had been pushed over and he was scrabbling inside it.

Over the cacophony of panic, I detected a sound behind me. I could not turn. It would have been most foolish in the circumstances. It was not close to me but not far off, either. It was a soft noise, like leaves rubbing in the breeze.

It could not be an accomplice, for I could see the shadow-dweller’s face assume an expression of fear and confusion.

He took two quick paces to his left, to alter his arc of fire, and opened up again. Slugs bounced off the steps beside me, chips of marble stinging against my calves.

Again I fired. He dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, slouching slightly forward. I took hasty but careful aim. He was nothing more to me now than the tussock in the pool high up in the
pagliara
. For the briefest of moments he was not surrounded by the street, the church and the parked cars, but by the oak and chestnut forests of the mountains, the clear air of altitude.

I did not go for a head shot. I wanted to see who he was and a bullet in the skull would blow half his face away. I aimed at his neck and the Walther did the rest. He reeled back under the impact of the slug, his hand flashed to his throat then dropped. He fell against the Fiat and slid to the ground.

There was silence now. The traffic seemed to have stopped, the town holding its breath.

At a half-crouch, I ran across to him, looking round. Everyone was lying on the ground except the puppeteer, who was crawling out of his kiosk. I knelt by the shadow-dweller.

His hand twitched spasmodically. There was a crude scarlet mess in the left side of his chest. His shirt was torn in a jagged gash around it. The mercury-filled bullet had done its job. His neck was oozing blood which was flowing down the nape and on to the back of his jacket. His head had fallen forward. On the side of the Fiat was spattered blood, which was running down like poorly applied gloss paint.

Rapidly, I searched his jacket pockets: nothing, no wallet, passport.

I gripped his chin and lifted his head up. It weighed little in death. One of Roberto’s watermelons was heavier.

I did not know him, although there was something about him I could not place. Perhaps, I thought, he was merely a stereotype of all the shadow-dwellers I have ever seen or sensed and, for this reason, was familiar. I let his head drop forward. It lolled to one side. His right cheek had a tic in it. There was his blood on my fingers and I quickly wiped them clean on the shoulder of his jacket.

Then it occurred to me: he was an American and Americans keep their wallets in their trouser back pockets. I pushed him slightly to one side, fumbled under him, found the button, tore the pocket open. His wallet was there, his passport, with the United States insignia on the cover, folded into it. I opened the pages.

Now I knew him, the shadow-dweller. And I knew where I had heard the voice before.

Beside him on the road lay a Socimi 821, the barrel extended with a sound suppressor. In dropping it, he had knocked the scope awry. There were thick gobs of gellified blood on the metal, yet I saw the last line of the inscription –
To Kill I will not faile
.

I went to pick the gun up. Perhaps that was what the shadow-dweller had wanted in his death, for me to mark his weapon with my fingerprints. Yet I did not touch it. Instead, I stared at it from the core of a silent darkness within myself. My mind filled with the one thought, that my last gun had in the final test failed to do its job.

The tourists were still not getting to their feet. Everyone lay prone. Then a child called out in a voice shrill with uncomprehending panic. I could not understand its words but it shook me alert.

I ran back to the entrance to the church. The main door, splintered by the Socimi and the ancient wood showing brighter where it was newly split, was open and, on the ground before it, was a black heap.

Father Benedetto was lying crouched on his side like a foetus, his hands to his belly. Between his fingers was a thick clot of blood and flesh. He was breathing in rapid, shallow swallows as if hurriedly testing his last glass of armagnac. From his glazed eyes, I could tell he was only semi-conscious.