The Crossroads (26 page)

‘If we're two pigs that wallow in shit, what are you? The alcoholic son of a bitch who ought to be our leader?'

‘But …' Danilo tried to reply, to slap him down, but what had happened to his anger? To his desire to smash everything? They had faded away, along with his words and his courage.

His Adam's apple moved in his throat.

‘The truth is, Danilo my friend, that you're just a paranoid, self-centred drunk who doesn't give a shit about anything or anyone else. If Quattro Formaggi has an accident you couldn't care less. In
fact, you think it's a lie. You make me sick. You sit there on your own, thinking about your stupid boutique, your fantasies of being a great man. You're just a pathetic little jerk who feels sorry for himself because he's been dumped by a woman who was tired of swallowing the shit of a bastard who …'

Killed her daughter. Go on, say it
, thought Danilo.

… ruined her life. Your wife was right to leave you. She was dead right. And I'll give you a piece of advice. You try once more, just once more, telling me how to bring up my son and … Let me be, Danilo. Let me be. Keep well away from me. Don't push your luck.'

‘Let me be, Danilo. Let me be. Keep well away from me. Don't push your luck.' Rino Zena hung up, shaking his head, lit a cigarette and went out of the house. ‘What a piece of shit …'

His hands were itching. If he hadn't been in such a hurry to find Quattro Formaggi he would gladly have dropped round on dear old Danilo Aprea to have it out with him.

But what's the quickest way to the San Rocco woods?

In the end Quattro Formaggi had managed, in between sobs, to stammer out that he was in the San Rocco woods. Near an electricity hut.

Why did he go all the way up there?

Rino was getting into the van when suddenly his head started spinning, he felt weak, he thought he was fainting, the cigarette dropped from his lips, his knees sagged and he fell to the ground.

What the hell's happening to me?

He tried to get up but he was too dizzy. He lay there for a long time, in the pouring rain, to get his strength back. His hands were trembling and his heart was pounding in his chest.

When he felt a bit better he climbed into the Ducato and drove out through the gate. The pain in his head was so acute that he couldn't decide whether to take the highway and then the road that ran along the river or to go up the narrow road through the woods near the bypass.

Danilo Aprea was paralysed, with the phone glued to his ear.

Rino Zena had threatened him. And a threat from that crazy Nazi was no laughing matter. That guy would kill you without so much as a second thought.

And above all, he never forgot.

Once when some poor bastard had pushed in front of him the thug had broken three of his ribs. Not immediately, though – six months later. All that time he had nursed his grudge and when one day he had happened to meet him in a pub he had first knocked him down with a beer glass and then kicked him in the ribs.

Suddenly he felt his bowels pulsing and his anal sphincter contracting and relaxing. He dropped the phone and rushed into the bathroom. He unleashed a stream of diarrhoea and sat there on the toilet with his elbows on his knees and his hands supporting his feverish forehead.

He was in a bad enough mess already, without getting death threats from Rino Zena.

‘Well, if you want to kill me, go ahead and do it. What can I say …' he murmured. ‘I was only trying to make you guys rich …'

Another nightmare appeared in his mind. The next day at noon the TV salespeople would be coming round to bring him the painting of the climbing clown.

‘What am I going to say to them? “I'm sorry, I haven't got any money. I don't want the picture any more. I made a mistake,”' he recited, sitting astride the bidet.

He couldn't let that masterpiece slip through his fingers so easily.

‘Anyway, I'm not scared of you, Rino Zena, my friend. I don't give a shit about you …' He curled his lip, baring his teeth like an angry wolf, and gargled with the throat mixture. ‘Don't fuck with me, do you hear? You've got to be very wary about fucking with Danilo Aprea!'

He went back into the sitting room in his underpants and windcheater. A treacherous leer had formed beneath his moustache. He started cackling with laughter. ‘Who's the drunkard?
I'm the drunkard, am I? Well, what are you then, Rino Zena? A pathetic alcoholic Nazi? A failure? A piece of human trash? Which? You decide. Which name would you like to be known by? Take your pick.' Then he started nodding his head and went on: ‘You and me are finished. I'm not scared of you. Why don't you come round here so I can …' he couldn't think of the word ‘… knock your block off. You're going to regret the mistake you've made, regret it bitterly. Hah! You don't understand who you're dealing with!' He flopped back down on the sofa and concluded, raising his index finger towards the ceiling: ‘Don't fuck with Danilo Aprea! I must get myself a T-shirt made, with that slogan across the chest.'

Beppe Trecca was sure Ida wouldn't come now.

So much the better
.

He had spent a hellish evening cooped up in that stinking camper. At least it would serve as a lesson to him – it would teach him not to fool around with his best friend's wife.

Anyway, that was it, he must go home, get into bed and forget about this mad infatuation with Ida Lo Vino. It was only a temptation that was burning his soul and would bring him eternal damnation.

I got carried away
.

He must write her a nice text message explaining that their relationship couldn't continue, for everyone's sake.

But how shall I put it?

“I apologise for pressing my attentions on you”? “Let's call the
whole thing off”?

No. Too cowardly. He would meet her the next day and make her see reason. Reminding her that she had children, and a husband who loved her, and that it was right that they say goodbye.

Yes, that was a test of character which would reconcile him with his conscience and with God.

But outside a car horn hooted.

Beppe dashed to the window and saw two yellow headlights in the rain.

It's her! She's here. Now I'll speak to her
.

Give yourself the once-over, thoug
h
…

He was about to go into the bathroom to look in the mirror when he remembered what was in there.

He adjusted his tie, peering at his reflection in the rain-streaked window, and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he started jumping up and down, bending his head to the left and right and loosening up his arms, like a boxer who has just climbed into the ring.

I must find the right way of putting it, so I don't hurt her
. But he didn't think he could even talk, he felt so excited. His stomach was tight and he had no saliva.

My breath must be bad enough to kill a rhinoceros
.

With trembling hands he took out the little box of mints that he kept in his pocket, tipped the whole lot in his mouth and then started crushing them with his teeth, recalling a statement once made by Loris Reggiani, the great motorcycling champion: ‘I've spent most of my life on a racing bike, knowing that I would achieve the best results if I could control my emotions and my potential.'

So go for it. Don't worry. You can do it
.

He opened the door of the camper, breathing deeply in and out.

Ida Lo Vino rushed in, soaking wet. ‘What's happening? Is this the biblical flood?' she said, removing her sopping raincoat.

Beppe would have liked to answer her, to say anything at all, but his vocal cords had been paralysed at the sight of her standing there in front of him.

Christ, is she beautiful
.

Even shrouded in the clouds of incense she was a goddess. She wore a knee-length skirt, black high-heeled shoes and a peach-coloured jacket.

And she's come because of you
.

‘Brr, it's cold,' she said, rubbing her arms.

All Beppe could do was pick up the bottle of melon vodka and pass it to her.

She gave him a quizzical look. ‘Aren't you going to give me a glass?'

‘I'm sorry … You're …'
perfectly right
. He took a wine glass from the table and passed it to her.

She poured herself two fingers of alcohol, looking around.

‘Small. But well organised.' She wrinkled up her nose. ‘You've lit some incense. There's a funny smell …'

It was like being inside a tin drum, with the noise the rain was making on the roof. He shouted: ‘Yes, there is.'

He would have liked to ask her how she had managed to come without arousing Mario's suspicions, but he didn't.

Ida tossed off the vodka. ‘Mmm, a bit of warmth. I needed that.'

She seemed even more tense and embarrassed than him. ‘I'm dying for a pee. Is there a bathroom in here?'

He pointed to the door and wanted to tell her not to open it, that it was hell in there and that maybe she had better … But the paralysis of his vocal capabilities persisted.

‘I won't be a minute.' Ida opened the door and locked herself in.

The social worker, in dismay, clapped his hand to his forehead.

The river had broken its banks and flooded the fields and soon the narrow strip of asphalt along which Rino Zena's van was speeding would be swamped. The headlights of the Ducato slid over the water-covered fields.

The worn blades of the windscreen wipers struggled to keep the screen clear, and on the inside the glass was misted up.

Rino wiped it with his hand and kept wondering why on earth Quattro Formaggi had gone into the woods. And why was he crying like that? Was there really something to worry about? Or was this just another crazy idea produced by that rotten brain?

Trying to penetrate the contorted mechanisms of Quattro Formaggi's mind was a task Rino had long since given up. Getting electrocuted at the weir hadn't helped, but even before that he hadn't been in such wonderful shape. He hadn't had all those tics and he hadn't walked with a limp, but he was already as daft as a brush.

He remembered him in the children's home. He would do crazy things like playing tennis for hours without a ball or a racket against an imaginary opponent called Aurelio.

He passed the pump of the deserted Agip filling station. From
this point the road climbed up the hill, which was covered with woodland.

The headlights made the teeming raindrops glisten, but couldn't cut through the foliage at the sides of the road.

On the phone Quattro Formaggi had whimpered that he was in a layby where there was an electricity hut.

Shortly before the uphill road began to bend Rino saw a long layby on the left. At the end, near the guardrail, was a concrete hut daubed with coloured graffiti.

This is it
.

Rino pulled in, turned off the engine, opened the tool drawer, took out the torch with the headband and switched it on.

No sign of life. Maybe this wasn't the right hut. He was about to return to the van when something gleamed behind the cabin. He went over and saw the Boxer and a Scarabeo leaned up against each other.

Whose is the other scooter?

Then he understood.

Some bastard who had nothing better to do than fuck other people around must have met Quattro Formaggi on the road.

There had been times in the past when they had surrounded him, shoved him around, amused themselves by making him dance and sing. They picked on him because he didn't react.

‘You bastards. If you've hurt him I'll kill you.' Rino pulled his pistol out of his belt. He returned to the van, got out the bullets and loaded it, feeling the anger warming his blood.

He pointed the light towards the trees.

Danilo Aprea had lain down on the bed in his underpants and windcheater, and was looking at the ceiling, gasping for air.

I feel like shit
.

His armpits were ice-cold. His feet boiling hot. His guts twisted in knots. And there was a worrying pain in his chest. The classic twinge that comes just before a heart attack. The sharp claw of a falcon digging in between your ventricles.

‘Now watch me burst a vein. That'll be the end of me. And you'll all be happy,' and he gave a belch that tasted of grappa.

He wished he could turn off the television, which was blaring in the sitting room. The voices of Bruno Vespa and those other arseholes blathering on about deficits, taxes and inflation made him feel terribly sick. But he was afraid of dozing off and dying in his sleep.

What a fool he'd been to drink that Cynar.

Do liqueurs have a sell-by date?

And then as soon as he closed his eyes he felt like he was falling into a bottomless pit which would take him right down to the fiery centre of the Earth.

He had to think. Though in that state and with Bruno Vespa yammering away in the other room it was really hard.

The first thing to consider was that the cash machine plan, as originally conceived, was dead in the water. The second was that he had finished for good with Rino and Quattro Formaggi.

‘But, as the proverb says, better alone than in bad company,' he mumbled, putting one hand on his chest.

He must revive the plan of the raid. Without them. It was the best thing his mind had produced since the day he had been born. It shouldn't just be dropped. The great thing about the plan was that you could do it any time. Any night. All you needed was the right mates, not a couple of cowards.

He would find some real professionals with whom he could start from scratch. At that moment he didn't know who they were, or how he was going to find them, but next day, with a clear head, he would certainly think of something.

‘Albanians. Guys with balls,' he said, panting. ‘Rino, my friend, you just don't understand me. What a pity. What a great pity. You don't realise who you're dealing with. If you want to stop Danilo Aprea you've got to blast him with a bazooka.'