Chandu, prepared opium. Loaves that fill boxes that fill trucks that meet waiting planes or ships. Compliant customs men, blind eyes turned by states and armies, investments passing from bank to bank. A kilo of opium becomes 100 grams of morphine, which become 25 of pure heroin, which is mixed with talcum powder, plaster of Paris and who knows what else.
For every dollar spent on opium, 5,000 are earned.
Goods that every trader dreams of, the additive that every circulatory system yearns for.
Intersecting routes. From Turkey to Sicily via Bulgaria and Yugoslavia. From Sicily to Marseilles. From Indo-China to Marseilles on the ships of the Foreign Legion. From Marseilles to Sicily.
From the Mediterranean to America.
The French Connection
The tie tight around the arm. Needle jabbed in the hollow of the elbow pierces the vein, clearly visible beneath the dark skin. Squirt of plasma, red blood cells, white blood cells, useless platelets flung into the outside world. The curse involves the Creator. No one hears it.
Apart from the Creator.
And the cockroaches, from behind the skirting board.
But who knows whether the Creator really exists. And cockroaches have no ears.
Body: a shell of trembling jerks, not a muscle that does its duty without protest. Blood of the walking dead, the smell of acute gingivitis, cold sweat.
The musician presses a handkerchief to his mouth. Sighs. Ties the tie around the other arm. Hard to press the plunger of the syringe. The hand less used seems to belong to someone else. The brain cannot direct it. Calm, calm, breathe and try again.
There we are, no problem. Hot serum begins to flow.
Euphoria and well-being, one thumb after the other.
He unties his Brooks Brothers tie.
Silent fart of bliss. Smile. Happy Christmas.
Part One: Sipan
home
Chapter 1
Naples, Agnano racetrack, Sunday, 3 January 1954
Magione was first to the enclosure, accompanied by the jockey wearing the blue and gold colours of the stable. He started walking round, shaking his neck, as though to ease the tension. A four-yearold tawny thoroughbred, thin, sharp muzzle, good season in ’53, placed plenty of times, two wins. Behind him, the jockeys introduced the other animals, superb, just shy of eighteen hands at the withers, their breath vanishing in the sharp afternoon air. Giuseppe Marano stroked the neck of his Ninfa, his absolute favourite, although he knew he was the more nervous of the two of them. He glanced quizzically at the spectators, then finished his tour of the enclosure, checking all the details. The filly snorted a few paces away from Lario: the colts weren’t doing too brilliantly. Then Verdi, Augusta and Redipuglia, very handsome too, but they’d be placed at best although Augusta might do well if the going was heavy. Until the previous day, before the clear sky of that winter Sunday, it had rained on Naples and the going was still soft. Monte Allegro, the most nervous of the group, turned up snorting and pulling at the bridle, ignoring the voice of his trainer, who seemed to be whispering something to calm him down. Nothing new there: Monte Allegro was one of those animals that are hard to control, that gulp down the first thousand metres before collapsing at the finish.
In the stands, Salvatore Lucania lit a cigarette and watched the wind carry off the first breath of smoke. He had had to take off his gloves, and now he was almost regretting the fact: it was bitterly cold. He turned towards Cavalier De Dominicis and said, ‘Wasn’t this supposed to be the città d’o sole, the city of the sun? Fuck, it’s so cold you’d think we were in New York!’
The cavaliere laughed, immediately followed by the cluster of people surrounding him. Lucania wrapped himself up in his camelhair coat and went on smoking.
The two journalists came over to him, notebook in hand.
‘Signor Lucania, they say that Eduardo is interested in a film about your life. Have you met him?’
‘De Filippo? No. Great person, great artist, but they won’t let him make that movie, I can assure you of that.’
‘So, tell us, who would you choose to act you on the screen?’
Lucania adjusted his glasses. ‘Cary Grant, of course. Of the Italians I like Amedeo Nazzari.’
A grim and unambiguous look was fired at the press, warning them not to go too far. The man responsible was Stefano Zollo, bull neck crammed into his thin tie, with Victor Trimane at his side. His job to make sure that the boss wasn’t disturbed by people coming and going.
‘The horses are coming on to the track,’ announced the loudspeakers.
The jockeys, already in the saddle for the warm-up, were making the horses stride to test the going. Ninfa looked like a white princess in the midst of the black horses. Marano fastened the crop to his wrist and pressed his cap low on his forehead. Lario caught the smell of a female and shook his head. Then Verdi and Magione passed, followed by Augusta and Redipuglia. Bringing up the rear was Monte Allegro; the black horse held his head high, his teeth bared, and Cabras, the Sardinian jockey, had trouble keeping him under control, and kept on talking to him and stroking him without any great success.
Saverio Spagnuolo waited for the boy to come back with the odds from the bookies. He saw him speeding towards him, coming over to whisper, ‘Savé, Ninfa’s at 21.’
Spagnuolo nodded and turned back towards the guy who had called him over: ‘Listen, pal, Ninfa is the absolute favourite, I can give you 10‒7, no more than that. But there are the other horses as well if you want them, and their odds are higher.’
The other man gripped his hand, passing him the rolled-up banknotes. ‘You’re trying to get me to make a dick of myself. 10‒7 is fine. Ninfa to win.’
‘As you wish. Take care of yourself.’
The clandestine bookmaker eyed the horses striding along the track and remembered his instructions: keep the odds as low as possible.
He scribbled a few conventional hieroglyphics into his notebook before slipping it into his pocket. Then he sent the little boy back to the official bookies.
‘Give me 20,000 on Ninfa at 5–4.’
‘13–8.’
‘Even with the going so heavy?’ objected the punter, trying to persuade him to raise the odds.
‘13–8, a bargain. If you’re not happy, the bookie will give you 2–1.’
Spagnuolo gripped the wad, counted quickly, scribbled something else and pulled off a strip.
‘Five thousand on Ninfa.’
The track judge gave the signal for the horses to go to the starting gates. Magione was in first, followed by Augusta. Marano held Ninfa back until Lario was in there too. Monte Allegro was still running at large, giving his jockey a few problems. His nerves also infected Verdi and Redipuglia, who started snorting and pulling on their bridles.
Gennaro Iovene closed the case of veterinary instruments, and headed for the stable door. The intense light dazzled him as soon as he was outside. He hesitated for a moment, then took the path to the right, towards the tracks, seeing the horses entering the gates in the distance. The man in the black coat, hands in his pockets, turned his back on the track. Iovene merely nodded at him, and when the man lit a cigarette he knew that his signal had reached its target.
He walked on without turning around, hearing the mounting excitement of the public
‘The horses are in the starting gates. One minute to the close of betting on the totaliser,’ echoed the loudspeakers.