The Namesake (28 page)

‘The south is separate from the north,’ said Blume. ‘The broken roads and railways turn journeys down here into tiring odysseys. Even when southerners speak standard Italian, they use a different grammar. Everything is said in the remote tense. That has to mean something.’

‘It means they still use the Latin past tense,’ said Konrad. ‘It is very fascinating to me.’

‘If it were up to me,’ said Blume, ‘I’d give this region back to the Spanish, the north back to the French and the Austrians, and Sicily back to the Arabs.’

‘And so, logically, you would give Rome and central Italy back to the Pope.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Blume. ‘I couldn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s German.’

Konrad, recovering his confidence in the purity of the produce, ordered
sospiri di limoni
for dessert. Blume asked for coffee.

‘I am paying for this of course,’ said Konrad. ‘You are my guest.’ He called over the waiter and got the bill, scribbled on a piece of graph paper.

Blume shrugged. ‘It’s the other way around if anything, but you can still pay.’

Without quite knowing why he was doing it, especially after he had made such an effort to cover his tracks, Blume now found himself saying, ‘Konrad, listen to me: if you’re thinking of going down to Calabria, don’t. They don’t want visitors. That would definitely include a federal policeman from Germany.’

‘Why do you say I am going to Calabria?’

‘Because you are.’

‘Just because I met Domenico Megale . . .’

‘I saw that torn Madonna with Megale’s signature. Take that look off your face, you left your bags unattended in the camper van, and then your room. Some part of you wants to be stopped. A well-hidden sane part.’

Konrad’s eyes were shining. Perhaps it was the drink. ‘I have a private matter to attend to. It is not police work. I would be grateful to be left alone,’ he said.

‘Is that icon of the Madonna some sort of code? What’s the idea, someone down there has the other half of the torn Madonna, you fit the two halves together, they see Megale’s signature, they know you are good and true?’

Konrad stared into the middle distance avoiding Blume’s sympathetic gaze and struggling to compose his features into an expression of indifference.

‘Are you planning to kill someone, Konrad? Or are you trying to get yourself killed? Or both? All I can say is you are making a bad choice, and I am giving you a chance not to make it . . .’

Blume stopped, as the waiter returned.

‘If I make a bad choice, there is another universe in which I make a good choice,’ said Konrad. ‘I believe in multiverse theory.’

‘That’s handy. Meanwhile, back in this universe, the waiter’s just asked us if you would prefer to pay in cash.’

‘What?’

‘Cash. The credit card machine is mysteriously “broken”.’

‘I don’t have enough cash.’

‘Fuck it,’ said Blume. He pulled out two fifties from the envelope Massimiliani had given him and paid for the meal.

32

Positano

Blume was lying in bed, his stomach heavy with fish, searching for the willpower to read through Konrad’s notes when his Samsung vibrated.

‘Massimiliani, I suppose?’

‘Of course it’s me. I hope you’re not using the phone to call other people.’

‘No. What do you want?’

‘You can forget about Hoffmann.’

Blume sat up straight, causing some of the papers to slip off his bed. ‘No! I was just getting somewhere with him. He has a torn Madonna. I think it’s a pass of some sort.’

‘Sorry, I’m not following. Are you talking about some immediate threat?’

‘No,’ said Blume. ‘I was . . . never mind.’

‘Good. We’ll pick you up in the morning, both of you. Hoffmann’s superiors have finally worked out the reason for his trip.’

‘Well?’

‘They won’t tell us yet. They say they need to check up on one or two final details. Personally, I think they are embarrassed at having overlooked something obvious, or maybe they have discovered Hoffmann was working for one internal department, which neglected to tell the other. It’s their problem, not ours.’

‘Just like that? We no longer care about Konrad?’

‘We never did care about him. We cared about what he might do, but it seems he’s not going to do anything that bothers us. He’s not armed, is he?’

‘No.’

‘See? It’s not a serious matter, at least that’s what they say.’

‘You suddenly trust the Germans?’

‘I always trusted my friend and associate Weissmann.’

‘But you don’t know what it is they have found out?’

‘I am afraid not. I expect them to tell us tomorrow. It’s rather late in the day now. They want to talk to Hoffmann himself beforehand. In fact, they are probably talking to him now.’

‘OK,’ said Blume slowly, concentrating on keeping the anger out of the two syllables. It was clear the Hoffmann threat, and hence Blume’s contribution, had never been taken very seriously. He knew all along the mission was not crucial, but this was humiliating.

‘What was that you said about a Madonna?’

‘I’ll tell you that later, sometime tomorrow. After you’ve heard from the Germans.’

‘Tell me now, Blume.’

‘It’s late. It’s a complicated thing and you just told me it doesn’t matter anyhow,’ said Blume, hanging up on Massimiliani for the second time that evening.

Blume picked up the bedside phone and dialled Room 17, and was quite surprised when the inside line did what it was supposed to do and put him in contact with Konrad, who sounded as if he had been asleep.

‘Curmaci,’ said Blume. ‘Agazio Curmaci. I don’t quite know why, but that’s who you are interested in. So am I. That’s why they threw us together. If he’s your enemy, maybe I can help. If he’s your friend, then . . . I don’t know. You don’t want him as a friend.’

Konrad said nothing.

‘Do you know what sort of man he is?’ said Blume.

‘Yes,’ said Konrad quietly, his voice muted with sleep. ‘I know what sort of a man he is. I think I was just dreaming about him now. Go to sleep and we can talk in the morning.’

But Blume no longer felt as tired as before. He retrieved the fallen papers from around his bed and started looking through them. Konrad had copied out songs, dialect words, stories, history and even recipes connected with the Society. Occasionally, a word was underlined here, an exclamation mark added there. Finally, Blume found a page with underlining and translations of dialect words on which Konrad had committed himself to a comment, although it turned out to be no more than a hastily scrawled ‘
sehr interessant?
’.

It was a description, no doubt out of date, of the protocol for making contact with an
’ndrina
that did not know you. Was that Konrad’s plan?

Q. Are you a wolf, a bee or a goat dropping?

A. I am a wolf who will devour you, a bee who will sting you, and a goat dropping that follows you.

Q. Do you walk, sir, above the road or below it?

A. I walk both above and below the road, for I am an artful scoundrel.

‘Oh, no you’re not, Konrad,’ muttered Blume. He flicked through till his eyes landed on more marking by Konrad, this time at the top of the story of Osso, Carcagnosso and Matrosso. Blume knew the legend. It was just the sort of thing an impressionable German like Konrad . . .

His phone, his real one, not the one supplied by Massimiliani, was ringing. Wearily, he got off the bed, half hoping it would stop before he got there, knowing full well who it would be. He hesitated; the caller, Caterina of course, was insistent; she was in a fury with him by the time he answered.

‘Apart from everything else,’ said Caterina, following up her long opening sentence in which she had called him a coward, a sneak, an
infame
, a liar, childish, stubborn and uncaring, ‘you are a fool.’

Now would be a good time to put down the phone, thought Blume, but then Caterina mentioned she had been to see Magistrate Arconti.

‘He’s talking, and he’s talking about you. He’s also talking about a mysterious confession made by Curmaci’s wife.’

‘Ah,’ said Blume.

‘Captain Massimiliano Massimiliani appreciated the subterfuge. Is that what you want, to earn the approval of people like him?’

‘What’s wrong with him? You haven’t even met him.’

‘Massimiliani’s father was involved in the Borghese coup attempt.’

‘That was his father,’ said Blume with an authority he did not own, since Caterina’s revelation was news to him.

‘But you didn’t know that, did you? You were so anxious to get away and play boy soldiers that you did not even question him, look him up or check him out like I did. Since when do you trust some creep from SISDE or AIMI or whatever they call themselves these days?’

‘He’s probably listening, you know.’

‘Yeah, I can smell him from here,’ said Caterina. ‘Did he give you a Masonic handshake, Alec? What lodge will you be joining, P3, P4, the Circle of the Illuminated Thieves?’

‘Now you’re exaggerating. Maybe Italy needs people like him now,’ said Blume.

‘No, it doesn’t, but people like him need errant fools like you to follow their directions. Gallivanting about as if anyone would ever take you seriously. A middle-aged homicide cop pretending to be fifteen years younger and playing at secret agent.’

‘You can’t talk to me like that.’

‘Shut up, Alec. I mean . . . shut up. Christ. Put this right or forget about me ever speaking to you again.’

‘Put what right?’

‘You’ve put that woman’s life in danger, just to place yourself at the centre of an affair that does not properly concern you. Tell Massimiliani to deal with it differently and you come home. But first, make sure that woman and the people around there don’t get hurt.’

‘So you think she deserves help, sheltering her criminal husband, nurturing criminal children, hanging out with other criminal women, the
sorelle d’omertà
as they call themselves, perpetuating the Society, obstructing inquiries, intimidating the few good citizens left? Whatever bad comes to her, she had coming.’

‘Including death? You’d be all right with that?’

‘If she dies, it won’t be by my hand, but by the hand of someone she knows, someone who will have more innocent blood than hers on his conscience. Someone whose murdering of innocent people she accepted, hid and respected.’

‘Alec,’ said Caterina, disorienting him by suddenly softening her tone, ‘you don’t have to talk tough like that to me. I know you.’

‘Then you should know these are my opinions.’

‘No, they are not. And even if they are, I happen to know your opinions don’t always match your feelings.’

‘I hate it when you try and persuade yourself that I am what you would like me to be. Next time I fail to live up to your expectations, don’t come looking for me.’

In the old days when he was receiving the silent treatment from a girl on the phone, he used to be able to hear the pops, gurgles and whooshing sound of the telegraph wires punctuated by the sighs and breaths and involuntary voiced murmurs that allowed him to judge the mood and seriousness of his soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend on the end of the line. But digital technology, the source of much evil in the world, he felt, had killed that, too. A high-pitched whine just within his audible range suggested the connection was still live, but the silence from the other side was total. He could not analyse her silences or anticipate her responses. Or maybe it was just Caterina and digital phones had nothing to do with it.

‘How’s your head?’ she asked eventually.

‘My head?’

‘Yes, Alec, your head. The large hairy thing full of evil thoughts that sticks out of your collar. The part of you that aches and talks about itself all the time.’

‘Fine. Mostly. I was on my way to a headache twice today, but it passed both times.’

‘When will you be home?’

‘I don’t know and I can’t say. Maybe as soon as tomorrow.’

‘I hope so.’

After he had hung up and stuffed his phone under the pillow, Blume found he was unable to banish his thoughts, concentrate or properly distract his mind. In the end he read the story of Osso, Matrosso and Carcagnosso, until he felt his eyes close.

33

The Three Knights

© Domenech K. & Nisticò G., 2007. Die Heldenunternehmungen der drei Ritter. Vorwort In Lange Kunst Vol I (3): 3–15. Frankfurt. Germany. Fachverlag Klett-Vauk.

In that place where now stands the Mosque of Al-Asqa in the sacred city of Jerusalem, a band of warriors, founded by twenty-five good men who took up arms only with reluctance, established their seat of command. The band was known as the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. We remember them today as the Knights Templar.