The Fallen (23 page)

“And there’s nothing we can do about it?”

“For the time being, no.”

A waiter approached the table and begged their pardon.

“What is it?” Varone said.

“There is a man at the bar who wishes to speak to you.”

“Who is he?”

“He claims to be a Dottore Aldo Cioffi, but he does not look like a
dottore
to me,
signore
.”

“That’s fine. Send him out.”

The waiter bowed and went back inside the café.

“I didn’t think he would come,” said Paolo.

“I was beginning to have doubts myself,” Varone said.

A moment later, Cioffi emerged. As he came towards them, Varone could see the sheen of sweat on his face. His complexion was drawn and there was a noticeable hitch in his step.

“I see you’ve already had a couple of glasses of courage,
dottore
,” said Varone. “Why don’t you have a seat.”

Cioffi plunged a hand into his coat pocket and Paolo was quickly out of his chair. He grabbed hold of the
dottore’s
arm and wrenched it behind his back. Cioffi yelped in pain.

“You should be careful,” Varone said as Paolo prised open the
dottore’s
fingers. “My nephew doesn’t like sudden movements. They make him nervous.”

“I am sorry,
signore
,” Cioffi said, wincing. “I have something for you, that is all.”

Varone raised a hand. “It’s all right, Paolo. Show me what he’s brought.” He took the small gem and turned it over in his hand.

“It is very valuable,” Cioffi said, massaging his elbow. “Agate and sardonyx. It is a cameo originally from the private collection of Cosimo de’ Medici. You see?” He leaned forward and pointed to the figure incised in the stone. “It is the god Dionysus. He is riding on the back of a satyr. I think your wife will like it very much.”

“Yes,” said Varone. “I’m sure that she will. Perhaps it can be made into a pendant, or a brooch. I know a jeweller in the Spaccanapoli who
is quite good at setting pieces.” He gave the cameo back to Paolo, who slipped it into his trouser pocket. “How about I give you five hundred lire for it?”

“Five hundred lire?” Cioffi said. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “But Signore Abruzzi gave me two thousand for a piece that was nowhere near so valuable.”

“Well,” Varone said, “I suppose I can’t be outdone by a dead man, now, can I?” He waited to see the
dottore’s
reaction. “I assume you heard about poor Renzo?”

Cioffi nodded solemnly. “Yes. It is very unfortunate.”

“For him, perhaps. But not, I think, for you.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “So, two thousand, then?”

Cioffi cleared his throat. He shifted uncomfortably. “I thought, maybe, four thousand.”

“Four? That seems quite a bit.”

“Yes, I know,
signore
. But I find myself in a situation. I need to find a new place to live.”

“A new place, eh? And where are you living now?”

“I am with a friend, in an apartment on Piazza Carolina.”

“Really? Which one?”

“Number 14. But I must leave. My friend and I … we have had a disagreement. A falling-out of sorts.”

“That’s too bad,” said Varone. “Have you any idea where you will go?”

“Not yet. I am looking still.”

Varone nodded thoughtfully. Then he reached into his pocket and took out his billfold. He counted off four thousand lire and handed it to Cioffi. “There’s two thousand for what you brought me. We’ll call the other two thousand an advance—for what you will bring me next. And as for you finding a new place to live, there is an apartment
house on Via San Sebastiano, next to Chiesa Santa Marta. I know the
portiere
. You go talk to him, tell him that I sent you. He will see that you are looked after.”

“You are too kind,
signore
,” Cioffi said, and reached out and took his hand. “Too kind.”

“Please,” said Varone. “We are associates now. It’s the least I can do.”

Once the
dottore
had gone, Varone turned to Paolo. “Number 14, Piazza Carolina. Make a note of that.”

Paolo scribbled in his book.

Major Woodard continued to inspect the sagging leaves of his aspidistra.

“To tell you the truth, lieutenant, I thought you would be excited at the news.” He turned back to Greaves. “You’re being given your own command. It’s an opportunity to redeem yourself.”

“Redeem myself, sir?”

“Well, yes. Let’s be honest, shall we? You came to us under a cloud. Now that cloud’s been lifted. You’ll be an FSO, like me. And I imagine that there’s the likelihood of a promotion in the offing. And it isn’t a stretch to say that Campobasso will be an improvement on Naples. Not to mention that you’ll be with your own again—surely that must appeal to you. Besides, the term of your secondment has already far exceeded what could be considered conventional.”

Greaves was at a loss for words. He had been caught completely unawares. When the major had called him into the office, he assumed it was to do with the botched marriage vetting that Corporal Philbin had conducted the day before, when Greaves was still on his way back from Sorrento. A young woman who was engaged to a captain in the Royal Fusiliers had been given a clearance to wed, only for it to be
discovered later in the afternoon that she had twice been arrested on charges of prostitution, which caused the permission of marriage to be revoked. The betrothed officer had returned to the section office and brandished his pistol.

“Are you all right, lieutenant?” said Major Woodard. “You’re looking rather ill.”

“May I ask, sir, where the order originated?”

“It came direct from General Crerar’s office. It seems you know someone who has some pull.”

“Yes, sir. That would be my father.”

“Then you might want to write and thank him.”

“If I could, sir,” said Greaves, “I would rather decline the transfer.”

The major frowned. “Decline the transfer? You can’t decline the transfer, lieutenant. I’m afraid that’s not how these things work.”

“But there’s still work I have to do here in Naples.”

“I’m sure that it’s nothing that the others can’t see to.” Major Woodard turned again to the aspidistra. He pulled a yellowed leaf from the plant and let it fall to the floor.

“When am I to leave, sir?” said Greaves.

“You are to report to Campobasso no later than the twenty-fourth.”

“That’s less than a week.”

“Yes,” said the major. “It’s amazing how quickly the army can work when it puts its mind to it.”

Parente watched Luisa as she walked ahead of him across the gallery. Sun streamed in through the second-floor windows and lit the wide, pale marble floor. The statues on their pedestals looked like living shadows, the bronze patina deep, rich, almost ebony. Parente had hired street boys
to help take away the sandbags. He paid each of them one hundred lire. In one afternoon they had removed all of the heavy burlap bags to an inner courtyard, where they were stacked and covered over with tarpaulins to keep them dry, though there hadn’t been rain in weeks.

The Americans had gone and left a mess behind them. Parente had cleaned it up himself, spent an entire night returning various pieces to their proper display cases.

Luisa stopped and looked back at him. “What’s wrong?” she said.

Her hair had begun to grow out; it was no longer so severe. It curled slightly around her ears and framed her face. She seemed softer to him, except for her eyes. There was something cautious about the way she looked at him. All that she had to say to him about the trip to Sorrento was that they had gone to the theatre and there were drinks afterwards. When he asked her about Pompeii, she said only that there were too many soldiers. There was more that she wouldn’t tell, of that he was certain; she was being careful with him. And he thought maybe it was better that she have some secrets.

“Augusto,” she said, “what is it?”

“It’s Aldo.”

“Aldo? What about him?”

“You were right. He’s been stealing from the collections.”

She made to say something, but hesitated. Then she asked: “Are you certain?”

“Of course I’m certain. I saw the evidence for myself. He falsified the ledgers. Colonel Romney showed them to me.”

Luisa sighed. She shook her head. “What will you do?”

He looked off towards the figures of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, the Tirannicidi, their smooth marble bodies now unfettered.

“When Thomas comes next,” he said, “I will tell him. And then I will ask him to arrest Aldo.”

“Arrest him?” Luisa said, and he noted the alarm in her voice. “Are you sure that’s best?”

“I won’t defend him anymore. I have defended him his whole life, and look what’s happened—he’s made a fool of me. But worse than that, I’ve made a fool of myself. I trusted him even when I knew that I shouldn’t, even when I knew, deep in my heart, that he would betray me. We all have to answer for the things that we do, Luisa. Now is Aldo’s time.”

Cioffi was sitting in the
salotto
, stuffing old pamphlets into his shoes to cover the holes worn through the soles, when he heard the knock at the door. Lello had left an hour earlier to meet with some of his old colleagues, who were trying to organize a new workers’ weekly. Before he went, he reminded Cioffi that he had to be gone by the day after next.

There was another knock.

Cioffi got up from his chair and went into the hallway. It was quiet now on the other side of the door, but he knew that, whoever it was, he was still there. Then the doorknob turned and he realized that Lello had forgotten to throw the bolt when he left.

The door slowly opened and Cioffi held his breath.

“Tenente Greaves,” he said with relief when he saw the young man’s face peek through. “I thought you were someone else.”

He went to the door and looked into the corridor before he pushed it closed again. The
tenente
walked past him and down the hallway. Cioffi followed him into the
salotto
, where he collected his shoes and sat down to put them on. The
tenente
walked over to the balcony and flicked open the louvres of the shuttered door. He stood there for what seemed a long time, looking out through the slats.

“This is a surprise,” Cioffi said. “I hope nothing is wrong.”

The
tenente
moved away from the window. He came and stood by the table. The pamphlets that Cioffi had been using to mend his shoes lay spread across its top. He picked one up. The banner read: ASSOCIAZIONE COMUNISTA NAPOLETANA—I LAVORATORI UNITI! He put the pamphlet down again.

“Those do not belong to me,” Cioffi said. “My friend Lello—”

“Do you know,
dottore
,” the
tenente
said, “what the penalty is for trafficking in stolen artefacts?”

Cioffi only hoped that the flash of panic sparked by the
tenente’s
question hadn’t registered on his face. He smiled. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

Greaves raised a hand to stop Cioffi speaking. “I spoke with Luisa. She’s told me everything.” He looked about the room. There was little that Lello hadn’t had to trade away or use as fuel; just an overstuffed armchair and the small end table remained of the suite of furniture. “I want to meet the man you’re working with,” he said. “Can you take me to him?”

“You want to meet with Salvatore Varone?”

“If he’s the one, then yes.”

“What will you do?”

“If I can,
dottore
, I will keep you out of Poggio Reale.”

As Augusto pulled the car to the curbside, the narrow beam of the blacked-out headlamps momentarily illuminated Signora Ciccione’s chair sitting next to the entrance to the courtyard.

Augusto kept the engine running. “I will wait until you get inside.”

Luisa wished he wouldn’t. She wished he would just drive away and leave her in the dark and to whatever it was that might await her there.
She felt sick sitting next to him. She’d said nothing of her conversation with Aldo from a few days earlier, and it tore at her heart. It was as if she too were making a fool of him. She leaned across and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“Be careful,” she said, and got out of the car.

She walked quickly through the gateway and towards the entrance of the building. Partway there, a noise startled her. She stopped and looked into the shadows.

“Who’s there?” she said.

“It’s me. Thomas.”

“Is everything all right?” Parente called from the idling car.

She looked back through the gateway and called to him. “Yes, Augusto. It was only a cat. I’m all right.”

She walked on towards the door of the building and opened it, then turned and waved to him. When the car pulled away, she walked back into the courtyard.

“Thomas?” she whispered.

“Here,” he said, and stepped out from a darkened corner.

“What are you doing? You frightened me.”

“I had to speak to you.”

“And I have to speak to you as well. It’s Augusto. He knows about Aldo. He’s going to ask you to arrest him.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Greaves said. He came close to her.

“What do you mean, don’t worry? Did you hear what I said?”

“Listen to me, please. I haven’t got a lot of time.”

There was something in his voice that frightened her. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m to be transferred out of Naples in a few days. I’ll be leaving.” His words left her cold. “You’re going away?”

“Yes. But I want to help you before I go.”

“Help me? How can you help me if you are not going to be here?”

He reached out and put his hand to her cheek. His palm was warm, dry, and she could smell the tobacco smoke on his fingers. Then she laid her hand over his so that she could hold it tighter to her face.

“I’m going to see Salvatore Varone tomorrow,” he said. “I’m going to see that everything is taken care of.”

She shook her head but couldn’t speak.

“It’ll be all right,” he said. “I’ll make it all right.”

“Come upstairs with me,” she said, but he told her that he couldn’t.

“There’s too much I still have to do,” he said. “I’ll get word to you.”

“How?”