“Last time you behaved badly with that hundred euros, really a bit of an oaf.”
“I had that special gift for you, and I had to give it to you in a hurry, it was starting to stink.”
“Still, you were rude.”
“This time she seemed contented.”
“What did you bring her?”
“Flowers from Capodimonte.”
“Bravo, guaglio’.”
They’d embraced and then they’d exchanged a few standard words, tokens of politeness.
Nicolas didn’t tell L’Arcangelo that traveling the streets of Ponticelli was like driving a car in the Paris–Dakar rally. Potholes, lurches, sudden gaps in the pavement, lanes that sloped off to each side until they basically merged with the sidewalks. A pothole, or even a speed bump that had been sabotaged, leaving only discontinuous chunks of murderous asphalt, had caused him to swerve too sharply, chipping one of the roses in the floral arrangement. Nicolas hadn’t noticed it until he was actually standing in front of Professoressa Cicatello, whereupon he’d asked her to wait just a moment; he’d found the porcelain petal mixed in with the banknotes, then he’d rung at a random door and had asked to borrow a tube of Attack adhesive. The result was questionable, the scar was quite visible, but Nicolas had never been an especially good handyman. He’d hurried back up to Professoressa Cicatello’s door, apologized, handed her the centerpiece, and had finally been able to go upstairs.
They’d sat down in the kitchen because the living room was off-limits, crammed with ’o Cicognone’s working implements. Don Vittorio had told him to install a more powerful air-conditioning system, and to spare no expense. ’O Cicognone had dismantled all the old equipment, which now lay scattered on plastic tarps, and he was unpacking the latest-generation machinery that would replace it.
L’Arcangelo had finally cut his hair. His locks no longer spilled over his ears and down the back of his neck in dirty curls; now his hair was neatly brushed, with a part on the right. He even smelled different, with a hint of cedar wafting off him.
Nicolas had unzipped his backpack and was stacking wads of cash on the table: four stacks of hundred-euro notes, which he was stacking one by one. L’Arcangelo let him work. He alternated his gaze between the cash and Nicolas. He lit a Toscano cigar, toyed idly with the ashtray, but never said a word. Why would he want to spoil that show?
“This month, we’re selling like crazy,” said Nicolas. He ran a finger over the last wad of notes like a croupier, producing the sound of rustling bills. “This is your end, forty thousand euros. Don Vitto’, admit it, you’re not sorry that you’ve taken us on as partners.”
Partner was the word that had hovered in the air since they’d greeted each other. L’Arcangelo had thought about it and Nicolas had thought about it. Partner meant democracy, equal rights and equal responsibilities. There was an investor and there was someone who worked out in the field, but still, each played a role, each had a share.
“Maraja, of course I’m not sorry. And I’m even happier to know that I still have a partner.”
“So you heard that they’re trying to rub me out?” Nicolas replied promptly. He wasn’t surprised that L’Arcangelo knew about the assassination attempt. The night before, the local TV news report had led with the story. Another innocent victim. Another dead man, collateral damage in the gang war. How much longer would this slaughter continue? Forever, Nicolas had mentally answered as he walked past a newsstand where the banner headlines of the morning papers were crowding the sidewalk. When will they understand that this city is at war? he’d asked himself. If they’d only admit that, these journalists would already have done half their job.
“The paranza is going to find out who did it, and fast,” said Nicolas. As he entered the kitchen he’d immediately identified the place where ’o Cicognone kept the spare whiskey for when the level in the bottle on the sideboard in the living room dropped to just two fingers. He got up on tiptoes and reached for the high shelf, above their heads, and chose a bottle of Masterson’s. “We’re going to unleash a slaughter,” he went on, “the streets are going to run red, or really I should say, they’ll run brown, because that traitor’s blood is brown like shit.”
With the bottle in his hand, he went over to the dish rack and grabbed two glasses at random. He filled them and raised his own, in a brisk gesture at a toast, then drained it to the last drop.
“But you know, Maraja, that if everyone else is looking up, you have to look down. If everyone else is looking out, you have to look in. You always have to look where everyone else isn’t,” L’Arcangelo said as he sipped his whiskey. “And when these things happen, you need to look in your friends’ pockets more than in your enemies’ pockets. More dangerous than the basket of vipers is the basket of apples. The problem is never with the vipers.”
“If you’re referring to my basket, we’re all brothers in my paranza.”
“If you say so, then it must be true.”
“Don Vitto’,” said Nicolas. He was starting to feel a glow of heat, and it wasn’t just on account of the Masterson’s, though that certainly didn’t keep him from pouring himself another glass. “You’re saying and you’re not saying—why don’t you just spit out what you mean?”
“You know your business, it’s your life and it’s your paranza.”
“I know how to spot traitors, and I don’t have any around me, at least not for now.”
“When they tried to shoot you, where were you going?”
“I was taking the dog for a walk.”
“And who knows when you do that, and where you go when you do?”
Don Vittorio was pouring himself a second glass of whiskey and hefting the stacks of bills. “A hundred-euro note still weighs one gram,” he said.
Nicolas on the other hand was mulling over the question that L’Arcangelo had asked him. Who knew? Everyone knew. He hadn’t been so blind as not to ask himself the same question, as he sat watching TV, where the carabinieri were pacing around that red patch on the pavement, keeping rubberneckers away. He decided that he didn’t deserve that fool’s death, he needed to die like a boss, shot in the face or in the back of the head. He’d imagined it plenty of times before, but to die like that, while you’re taking a dog out to pee, around a corner, in your own neighborhood …
“They’d been waiting for you,” L’Arcangelo resumed. “You shit your pants, huh? Did you get a yellow stain?” And he gave Nicolas a kiss on the forehead.
“But who did it, Don Vitto’? Micione? The guys from Secondigliano?”
“Why would they want to shoot you?” L’Arcangelo asked, trying to make him think it through.
“Because I’m busting their balls.”
L’Arcangelo started to pour another glass of whiskey but then decided against it. “Nzù,” he said, little more than the sound of a clucking tongue. “Nzù. That’s not reason enough, just because someone’s busting your balls.”
“Micione wants me dead.”
“Then why haven’t they shot you before? Because you have immunity.”
“Immunity?”
“The immunity of your age, guaglio’. If someone shoots a kid, he’s telling the world that that kid has the power to fuck him. Think how stupid that would make him look. The problem is that you’re growing up, so now your immunity … Well, who do you think it was?”
“Whoever wants to take my place…”
L’Arcangelo nodded: “Huh, and who thinks they have the right to take your place?”
Those words made a suspicion echo in his mind, a suspicion that dated far back in time, a doubt that had lain well concealed until that very instant, so hidden that he’d never thought he even had the doubt. And now that he saw it, the harder he peered to minimize it and ridicule it, the more it grew and the harder it laughed at him, mocking him.
“Don Vittorio,” said Nicolas, “I understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
“Actually, I’m not trying to tell you anything.”
“But you meant Luigi Striano.”
“You’re the one who said that name.”
“Don Vitto’, Drago’ is a brother to me. When he’s behind me, I never think of turning around.”
“Well, that’s your mistake. A Striano he is and a Striano he’ll always be.”
“You don’t understand, Don Vitto”—and now he was talking to convince both the other man and the part of him that had suddenly stirred awake—“Drago’ even came to tell me that Micione wanted to turn him against me. If he was a traitor, a Higuain, he’d never have told me.”
L’Arcangelo burst out laughing. “The best way to kill your enemy is to marry him.” He was blowing hard on Nicolas’s doubts, kindling them into flame, and that smoldering fire was kicking up a plume of smoke that clouded his memories and certainties.
“No, Don Vitto’, stop…”
But L’Arcangelo was no longer listening to him. He’d gone over to the refrigerator; there must have been some leftover pastries from last Sunday. “First he married you, and now he’s going to get them to give him Forcella, Maraja.”
Nicolas felt his mouth pucker, his teeth on edge. He continued to click tongue against palate, the same way that that obsessive thought kept pounding in his head.
“Anyway,” said L’Arcangelo, setting the tray of pastries down on the table. “Try these rum babas, sweeten your mouth a little, since it’s turned too bitter just now.”
“No, Don Vittorio, I’m fine, but thanks.” He pictured himself in a puddle of blood. The sonogram sprawled on the asphalt, the flashes of photographers snapping pictures. The death of a fool.
“Come on, try this rum baba, ja’.” He waited for Nicolas to bite into it. “Isn’t it good? The best babas have always been made on the outskirts of town. In the center of town, all you can find is babas for tourists. Maraja, when you’re in command, everyone’s your brother and no one’s your brother. The way you command is by making everyone believe that you trust them, but actually by not trusting anyone.”
L’Arcangelo filled the glasses once again.
“Are you sure it wasn’t Striano who shot at you?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“Only God can know for certain, but maybe we can find proof.”
“Really?”
“Let me explain.”