The Namesake (47 page)
Locri
Basile stood next to the repaired ice-cream machine that buzzed softly as it cooled down the mixture. Tony Megale was there and had brought his own firepower, Peppino and Giacomo. Basile smiled to see Giacomo looking so grown-up and self-important now, big ’70s-style sunglasses, a flame tattoo poking up from beneath his silk shirt.
‘Are you the same little Giacomino who went missing, you had half the town out looking for you, then it turns out you were at home, playing a trick on your brother, but got so scared by all the fuss you stayed hiding for hours?’
With a curt nod, Giacomo acknowledged that this might be so.
‘You were eight at the time. What age are you now?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Twelve years.’ Basile shook his head in amazement and sadness. ‘Would you like an ice cream, Giacomo?’
Giacomo gave the old man a cool stare and declined the offer with a contemptuous click of his tongue.
Basile smiled indulgently and turned his attention to the other. ‘And you are Nando’s son. Beppe was your grandfather?’
The youth nodded, pleased to be recognized.
‘Your grandfather and I were friends. Did he ever mention that to you?’
‘He died when I was very young, but my father always said there was no one could beat you . . .’
Tony Megale interrupted. ‘We’ll have all the time we want to talk about this later. Where is he?’
‘Who?’ asked Basile.
‘Agazio Curmaci, of course. Who else?’
‘I thought you might mean your older brother, Pietro.’
‘I fear for him. He is a simple man who is easily led astray. I even fear he may have chosen the wrong side, but if that’s the case, I will forgive him as he is my brother.’
‘Is everyone sure they don’t want any ice cream . . .?’ Basile looked at the three of them. ‘All right. Your loss.’ He sighed. ‘This is a bad business. Curmaci is a repository of some of our deepest traditions and has ensured that they are replicated, honoured and enforced in Germany. The loss of such a subtle and fluid man could set us back, unless, of course, there was someone equally qualified and skilled, ready to take his place . . .’
Tony Megale put his shoulders back and expanded his chest, creating a tiny regal space for himself between the two kids he had brought along.
‘Even then,’ continued Basile, ‘it would be a self-inflicted wound, and forgiveness and compromise are still options.’
‘The Honoured Society,’ said Tony, ‘is the Tree of Knowledge. The Capo Bastone is the trunk. If a branch is diseased and grows crooked, it shall be lopped off. One who collaborates with the authorities of the Italian State, with the Federal Police of Germany is no longer a man. My father,
Megale u Vecchiu
, spent years in prison because of an act of betrayal by Curmaci, and the decades of incarceration have destroyed his wisdom and discrimination and rendered him less than half the man he used to be. Curmaci is the
infame
who alerted the woman in the Finance Ministry about our carousel VAT system. That’s why he was so keen to make her disappear afterwards.’
‘That is a serious charge against him, Tony. So serious that I wonder why you are reporting it only now.’
‘I only found out now. The crazy German called me a few days ago. He says he has papers to prove it.’
‘So now we must believe the crazy German, who came down full of wild accusations, with a Madonna ripped in half claiming to represent your father’s will?’
‘My father no longer speaks with reason.’
‘The German said nothing about this to me,’ said Basile.
‘He was finally thinking about his own life,’ said Tony, ‘instead of trying to ruin ours.’
‘And these papers that prove this betrayal?’
‘The
scagnozzi
you engaged gutted the camper without searching it properly.’
‘Young people have no foresight,’ said Basile. ‘Tony, you have a mature mind. Are you sure of the decision you have made? I see from your face that you are. It is terrible that this should come so soon after the joyous festivities in celebration of Our Lady. The sanctuary is now crawling with policemen, our common enemy, and yet we find ourselves fighting each other again. Will you reconsider?’
‘I will not.’
‘You will meet Men of Honour from Reggio and Crotone. They will be waiting for you at the end of Via Garibaldi. Before you take any action, they must be persuaded that this is not a mere personal vendetta and that it will not lead to a debilitating feud. If one of them objects to your course of action, you shall do nothing. Is that understood?’
Tony Megale nodded impatiently.
‘Please listen to them carefully,
Antonino mio
. They are courteous men versed in diplomacy and negotiation. An objection might be expressed as a question, the voicing of a misgiving or regret. I expect you to be sensitive to the nuances of their conversation. I think subtlety will serve you well in your future.’
‘I understand,’ said Tony. ‘If Curmaci is with his wife and children?’
‘He is a man of honour. He will walk out of the house in your company. I am sure of it. Go now, all three of you, and God’s blessing be on you all.’
‘Come in here, Ruggiero. I’m in the kitchen.’
It was strange to hear his father’s voice echoing through the house. His mother had come into his bedroom early that morning to give him a kiss and tell him she was going with Robertino to visit family in Cosenza that she had not seen in years. It would be an opportunity to try out the brand-new Nissan Pathfinder sitting outside the front gate. Pepè’s father, Mimmo the mechanic, had driven it over personally the day before, and Ruggiero and Agazio had ridden in fine style to San Luca and Polsi. When they returned that night, the old car with the mysterious engine trouble was gone.
Ruggiero walked into the kitchen. His father was seated at the far end of the table. Set in front of him, diagonally across the table, was the old Carcano carbine, the
Modello 1891
, which his father liked to take down and clean whenever he came home. Next to his hand was a small glass with what appeared to be water in it, and beside that, one of Ruggiero’s throwing knives.
‘Someday we must find out if this old Carcano can still be fired,’ he said. ‘I doubt it. You know, no one seems to know if the Carabinieri are named after the carbines they used, or whether the carbines are named after them. You would think such a simple question of history would be easy to resolve. I have always had some respect for the Carabinieri. The police . . . not so much.’
His father picked up Ruggiero’s throwing knife, frowned at it, then launched it at the cupboard above the sink. With a dull thud, the blade embedded itself in the wood.
‘That cupboard is worth nothing. Layers of woodchip and glue. If I had thrown it into this table, it might have bounced off it, but maybe that’s also because I’ve never used a throwing knife. Have you been practising?’
‘A bit,’ said Ruggiero.
‘I’m not sure that knife is good quality. It doesn’t even seem to have bitten deep into that cheap wood. You can imagine how pleased your mother would be if she thought we were throwing knives in the kitchen.’
Ruggiero retrieved his knife. When he turned round, his father had placed on the table a dagger with a four-sided blade that tapered to a point so thin as to be almost invisible.
‘This is called a
quadrello
. The metal of the blade remains four-sided all the way to the top. A
stiletto
has a triangular tip. I would have liked a Norman dagger, but you can only get worthless replicas. Sit down, Ruggiero.’
He reached over to the wooden fruit bowl, tapped a lemon off the top of the pile, and allowed it to roll towards him. Then he sliced the lemon in two with the dagger. ‘Nowhere in the world has lemons that smell like the lemons of Calabria. The rind itself is sweet enough for a dessert.’ He pressed his finger into the grain of the oaken wood, and then lifted it.
Ruggiero saw what seemed like one of his mother’s sewing needles was stuck to his father’s finger. His father rolled the needle between finger and thumb, and pressed it back on to the table, where it became almost invisible.
‘Hard to see against the wood, isn’t it?’ said his father. ‘That’s because it’s gold.’ He picked it up again and quickly pricked his forefinger, index finger and thumb, and squeezed them till pearls of blood bobbed to the surface. ‘A carbine, a golden needle, a dagger, a lemon and a glass of water with poison in it. These are the symbols that were laid out before me upon my induction as a
santista
for the Honoured Society. It is both wrong and right for me to be telling you this.’
Somewhere in the distance, something made a hollow pop, followed immediately by two more, then a pause. Suddenly there was such a volley of pops and cracks that they became innumerable, and then there was silence, like the end of a fireworks show.
‘Papà?’
His father held up his hand. ‘Wait.’ Three more popping sounds reached them. Then they heard the sound of tyres screeching on hot asphalt.
‘Papà?’ said Ruggiero again.
‘It’s all right, son. We are safe now.’
A car roared by the front of the house. Someone beeped timidly at it as it took the corner and started heading out of town, up the mountain.
His father let out a long breath. ‘When you are sworn in as a
santista
, only another
santista
may take your life. If a
santista
should commit an error, he is expected to punish himself, because no one else may touch him. That is what the glass of poison represents.’ So saying, he picked it up and drank it.
‘No!’ cried Ruggiero, leaping up and running over to him.
His father grabbed him and almost squeezed the life out of him, and laughed. Ruggiero could smell alcohol on his breath.
‘Don’t worry. That was Aquavit I just drank. Maybe you’d like one? But no, your mother would not approve.’
He squeezed some drops of lemon onto the beads of blood and winced a little, then licked his fingers. ‘There are thirty-three
santisti
. When you receive the title, you leave the Honoured Society. You no longer swear in the name of the angels and saints, but take an oath instead to the secular heroes of the Italian Risorgimento: Giuseppe Mazzini, Giuseppe Garibaldi and Giuseppe La Marmora. These are men of the state, men of law enforcement. Like other
santisti
, I pledged allegiance to them. By this act, I left the Society, yet continue to work exclusively in its interests and for its benefit. We members of the
Santa
collaborate with the authorities. We have friends in uniform, lunch with Senators, negotiate with the political parties of the Republic, and have even helped design new laws. Our peers are not men with guns, but bankers, lawyers, developers and investors. All that we do, we do to advance the fortunes of the Society and enrich its members. When a man joins the
Santa
, he is condemned to a life of loneliness, exile and betrayal. The first thing he must do is undertake to keep his status secret from the group to which he belongs, from his closest companions, from the
’ndrina
that brought him up, and even from the boss that commands him. In the case of a conflict of interests, the
santista
shall always prevail. To do so, he calls on the help of other
santisti
. Usually, but not always, he will call on the three fellows who were present at his induction. They will act personally or through the agency of
sgarristi
,
camorristi
, or even mere
contrasti d’onore
.
‘Eventually, circumstances will conspire to make the real status of a
santista
become known even to his former companions. If they are wise and farseeing, and if they are not greedy for power, they may recognize that their brother has become a
santista
and withdraw their claims. If they are not, they will accuse him of calumny, collaboration, theft and betrayal.
‘A
santista
can also become a
vangelista
. This is a great honour, and there are but twenty-five such persons. But the life of the
vangelista
is even lonelier. A
vangelista
writes the rules of the Society. He determines the rites, and enforces them, maintaining unity of purpose, discipline and clarity within the Society as it expands. A
vangelista
should be a man who is steeped in history and tradition, but one who also knows how to maintain those traditions in this violent and rapidly changing world. A
vangelista
, for instance, might live his whole life in Germany, or Australia, or Canada, making sure the traditions and lines of command are obeyed, preventing infiltration from the authorities while ensuring the Society has representatives within the authorities. It would be hard, say, for anyone to challenge a
vangelista
on the protocol of revealing some of the secrets of his work to his own son, since the
vangelista
is endowed with
magisterium
. Like a Doctor of the Holy Apostolic Church, a
vangelista
is the ultimate arbiter of moral codes and the scriptures. It would take another
vangelista
to challenge him.’
