The Fallen (7 page)

“So, he’s taking on workers, then,” said Abruzzi.

“Yes. The Americans want a complete inventory of the museum’s collection.”

“That’s good. That’s very good. You will go and work for him.”

Cioffi shook his head. “I don’t think he will have me. He doesn’t trust me anymore.”

Abruzzi picked up the bottle and filled Cioffi’s glass again and handed it to him. “You should find a way,
dottore
,” he said, “to earn his trust again.”

Greaves was tired. He had been on the road since seven that morning and his kidneys ached—a consequence of the long ride on a nearsuspensionless Norton motorbike. He had come from the mountain village of Tenerello, where he’d spent the last two days of his week-long security liaison circuit of outlying police garrisons. At Tenerello he stayed with
brigadiere
Francesco Maglietta and his family in their
farmhouse on the outskirts of the town. Greaves always made sure to manage his time in Casoria and Aversa and Afragola so that he had a little extra in Tenerello with the Magliettas. The
brigadiere’s
wife made lovely meals and his daughters were energetic and curious and would take Greaves for hikes in the mountains, and Francesco himself was always ready to open a bottle of brandy and stay up late into the night talking books and playing endless hands of
tresette
. Being with them was like being in a place outside of time: it was easy for Greaves to forget everything else—even easy for him to forget why he had gone there in the first place.

Now, back in Naples, he waited for Major Woodard, who had left the office some time earlier in search of a tape measure. They had been in the middle of the briefing when the major excused himself. He’d been continually distracted by the conundrum of an empty shipping crate and a floor globe that opened into a drinks table. Finally he’d said: “Look, just give me a minute, will you, lieutenant. I won’t be a moment.”

Greaves looked at his watch again. He wanted to wash up and have lunch before he got down to typing up his reports. At this rate he might have to forgo one or the other—likely the bathing. He glanced around the major’s office. Along with the floor globe, there was a silver coffee service and trolley, and a complete set of Cicero’s
Ethical Writings
, bound in red leather.

The door opened and the major came in, a cloth tailor’s measure in hand. “Give me a hand with this, will you, lieutenant,” he said.

Greaves followed him to the crate.

“Just hold this at the bottom,” said Major Woodard.

Greaves took hold of one end of the tape and knelt down while the major pulled it taut. Then they went through the same procedure with the floor globe.

“Just as I thought,” the major said. “It’s not near bloody big enough.” He nodded to his small inventory. “I won’t even get the drinks table in, never mind the rest of it. And my fellow at Capodichino tells me I can only send one crate at a time.”

At the airfield there had been a crackdown on unofficial cargo being put on flights to England. Even with his security clearances, Major Woodard was finding it more difficult to ship his spoils home.

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out, sir,” said Greaves.

“Yes, of course, lieutenant. It’s more an annoyance than anything else.” The major wound the measuring tape around his finger. “Right then, what was it we were talking about?”

“Tenerello, sir.”

“Yes, Tenerello. So, what did you find out?”

“Nothing specific,” said Greaves. “Rumours, mostly. The
camorristi
in the area are said to be handling heavy machinery: trucks, construction equipment, that sort of thing.”

“And does your brigadiere friend— What’s his name?”

“Maglietta, sir.”

“Right, Maglietta. Does he say how they’re getting it?”

“He doesn’t. Though my guess would be that the
camorristi
are working with deserter gangs here in Naples. They may even have made inroads into some of the engineering brigades. They are very resourceful, sir. We already know that ties have been established with certain AMGOT personnel, mostly in the civilian liaison department.”

“Now, lieutenant, let’s not go punching above our weight class,” said Major Woodard. “I suppose this
brigadiere
hasn’t any solid evidence for us. Nothing we can take to FSHQ.”

“Nothing first-hand,” Greaves said. “And he’s not likely to go looking, either, sir.”

The major pursed his lips. “No, I wouldn’t think so.”

“Well, there is a question of his personal safety, sir.”

“And that comes before law and order, does it?”

“In Bandit Country, I’m afraid it does, sir.”

Maglietta had made it clear to Greaves early on that in Tenerellohe saw to the smaller criminals and let the bigger criminals see to themselves.

“Is he getting any help from the local officials? The mayor and whatnot?”

“They’re friendly with the gangs.”

“Yes, I’m sure they are.” Major Woodard shook his head. “I supposethat was our first mistake, wasn’t it? We should have left Mussolini’s lotin place to run the show—at least we could have trusted them.”

“It’s a little late for that now,” said Greaves. “It is a little late for a lot of things, lieutenant,” replied the major. “Tell me, what have you got on your plate at the moment?”

“Well, sir, there’s a backlog of paperwork I need to get through. And a few proposed brides I’m scheduled to vet. I’m also expecting a list of possible employment candidates from the curator of the Archaeological Museum that I’ll need to look up at the Questura.”

“So, not much, then.”

“No, sir. Not much.”

“Good, because I’ve had a request from FSHQ. They’re concerned about stolen medical supplies. Seems that shipments out of the port to 21st General Hospital at Mostra fairgrounds have been routinely arriving light.”

“Is that really up to us, sir? Don’t the American military police look after the port and the hospital?”

“They aren’t having much luck, and Castellammare wants us to help them out.” The major shrugged. “I’m not overly inclined to do
the Yanks’ work for them either, lieutenant. We have enough to worry about as it is. There was a spate of wire cutting while you were away, and the others are busy trying to sort that mess out. But I do as I’m told, and that means that you do as you’re told. Just go by the port and have a word with someone there—the same at the hospital. Write up whatever you find out and we’ll send it along to Castellammare. That should be enough to keep them happy.”

The major took a last look at the globe and the crate, then went back to his desk and made a note on a scrap piece of paper. “Now, do me a favour, will you, lieutenant,” he said, holding the paper out to Greaves. “Give these measurements to Corporal Philbin and tell him to show it to the clerk at the supply depot. And do ask him to get it right this time.”

Greaves took the piece of paper. “Of course, sir,” he said.

By early afternoon, the sun had burnt away the clouds and fulfilled the promise of a warm day. Soon the winter rains would be gone altogether; springtime loomed. And after that there would be the cruel white heat of summer. The war would be gone by then, moved on north to Rome or perhaps even farther; maybe by summer it would have reached the Alps. Either way, Naples would no longer be so important—a southern port, too far away from the fighting. Then, Salvatore Varone knew, it would be dangerous; that would be his time of hunger. So it was better to gorge now, while there was still plenty to feed on.

Leaning over the railing of the wide balcony, Paolo said: “You can’t see Montecalvario from here.”

Varone went and stood beside him. “That’s the point,” he said. Below them, the parkland of Villa la Floridiana fell away in a rolling green carpet of umbrella pines and monkey puzzle trees and shifting
palms. Then came the terracing rooftops that descended to the sea, to where, in the marina of Santa Lucia, the fishing boats looked like colourful petals cast upon the water, and Castel dell’Ovo, catching the sunlight, resembled a brick of gold floating on the dark waves. Farther along, at the port, even the leaden hulks of the British and American ships at anchor in the basin, motor launches scratching frothy patches in the oily water between them, shone like polished granite islands. It was like a picture postcard; but Varone knew that, like a postcard, the view was a lie that hid the truth of the city—the swarming despair, the sickness and cruelty, the hunger and vice. Naples was like a diseased prostitute who hid her blisters beneath layers of powder and paint.

“When I was a boy,” he said, “the man who lived in this apartment would have beaten me if I’d stopped him in the street.”

“You knew him?” said Paolo.

Varone looked at him and shook his head. “No, I did not know him.”

He returned to the table and sat down, and took a piece of bread from the basket his wife had put out and dipped it into the pot of olive oil. He held the basket out to Paolo. “Here. Eat.”

Paolo took a heel of bread. He broke it with his thick fingers and ate it dry. There was still much of the street in his sister’s son—the raw hunger, the crude manners, the promise of swift violence. There remained traces of it in Varone as well. He saw it every morning when he stood before the bathroom mirror to shave: the scarred lip that upset the balance of his thin moustache. The man who had given him that scar—he was only fourteen when it happened—was a housebreaker who had beaten him with a sock full of coins to teach him a lesson about moving in on someone else’s territory. Varone had found him later in a brothel on Via Toledo and made him beg for mercy before he castrated him, slicing his testicles with a barber’s razor. The act had
cemented his reputation among the other street boys, and made him known to the local Camorra boss, who took the young Varone under his wing just as he now took Paolo under his own.

“So, tell me,” Varone said.

Paolo reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small notebook. He flipped through the grubby pages. “There is a shipment of office supplies in a warehouse on pier twelve. Typewriters, mimeograph, ink, carbon paper. It is going to be moved to American army headquarters at Caserta by the end of the week. It can be arranged for us to pick up tomorrow night, if we want.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told them that we would have a truck there at midnight.”

“Good. What else?”

“There is timber being moved up from Calabria for a prison camp that the British are building outside of Avellino. They will need drivers.”

“No,” Varone said. “That’s not for us. There are too many toes that could be stepped on. If they brought it through the port, maybe.”

“I just thought you should know,” said Paolo. “Other than that, we are due to make a sweep of the market.”

Varone nodded. “It’s time to collect the rent.”

“Fifteen thousand a head?” Paolo asked.

“Better to make it ten,” Varone said with a shrug. “That way, they will think we are being generous. It’s always good to give a man the impression that you feel sorry for him—it makes it easier to pick his pocket.”

“And what about the ones that still won’t pay?”

“They know the price.”

The cost of refusing was an unpleasant confinement in a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, where the dissenter would be bound and beaten until someone showed up with the payment.

“Now, what about this Abruzzi?” Varone said. “Have you heard anything?”

“As far as I can tell,” said Paolo, “nobody talked. I think he figured it out on his own. He must have been watching our operation at the docks for a while beforehand.”

“He’s a clever fellow, then.”

“Clever enough,” said Paolo.

“He’ll know that we will want to find whoever it was that stole from us.”

“I think so, yes.”

“Can I assume that you’ve been keeping an eye on him?”

“I have.”

“Good.” Varone got up from his chair and walked again to the railing. Through the open balcony doors came the sound of his daughters’ laughter; their voices were like the melodies of songbirds to him. He looked out once more over the park. In the distance he could see the purple slopes of Vesuvius, a trail of vapour rising from its yawning summit. “It is a terrible shadow to live under,” he said.

“What is?” asked Paolo.

Varone turned around. “The mountain,” he said, and smiled. “Don’t you ever think about how one day it is going to bury us all under a heap of ash?”

Paolo looked at him queerly. “No. I never think that.”

“I do,” said Varone. “It helps to remind me that nothing matters but today.”

Luisa came along the street. Tucked up under her arm she carried a hardened loaf of black bread wrapped in cloth. In her coat pocket she had a tin of bully beef. There hadn’t been enough to buy the margarine
or the biscuits she wanted, and she couldn’t afford the broad beans that the sellers brought in from the countryside. The last of the money that Augusto had given her—the pay packet she brought home from the museum was worth less with each passing day—only bought the bread and canned meat. She had considered trading the music box that Tenente Greaves had given her—a useless trinket, really—but at the last moment had changed her mind.

She tried now to be inconspicuous as she approached the apartment house and saw Signora Ciccione. The old woman lived in the apartment below Luisa’s. She was sitting on a straight-backed chair near the courtyard gate, running the beads of a rosary through her stiff fingers. Luisa had been frightened of the elderly widow, who seemed to her to have always been old, always stooped and withered, ever since she was a child. The
signora’s
face was pinched and shrivelled like a dried apple, and to Luisa she had always been
la strega
—the witch.

As she lowered her head and made for the gate, the old woman’s soft voice stopped her.

“What are you hiding, my child?”

Luisa gave her a sideways glance. “It’s nothing,” she said.

“No,” Signora Ciccione said, the phlegm catching lightly in her throat. “You have food. Let me see it, child. Show it me.”

“It’s very little. Some stale bread. A tin of meat.”