Things had started going badly in the early fifties, with the first elections of the workers’ councils in the factories. As far as Pierre could tell, this was still an experiment, but in essence the state was granting workers the chance to take control of the reins of the companies where they worked. His father had been keen on the project. He said that self-management was the only way forward for true socialism. So, as a member of the union, he wanted to put his name down on the electoral list for the workers’ council in his factory.
‘They knew we were enthusiastic about it, but they played dirty: they gave me a promotion, a job that didn’t interest me, in an office in Split. I had to take it and give up the election. That was the start of it all.’
After that there was a succession of little signs. The ‘Italian comrade’ started getting ‘awkward’; his compatriots were accused of being spies for the Cominform, relations with Italy were becoming increasingly tense over Trieste, and a generous helping of racism completed the picture. The partisan war was a faded memory. The ‘hero of the people’, Vittorio Capponi, was becoming a foreigner once more, while official blessing was still being bestowed on the internationalism of the workers’ movement.
‘No, Djilas didn’t give me much help. Friends? Did I write that we were friends? Well, not really, that was just to help you understand. The fact is that I didn’t mind some of his ideas, particularly when he attacked Party bureaucracy and accused the Central Committee of being rather undemocratic and very, what’s the word, Mafioso, is that right? The problem is that he was one of the four most important people in the country, he drove around in a Mercedes, with a chauffeur, he frequented the smartest drawing rooms, hunts, big ceremonies. He dreamed of devoting himself entirely to theory and literature, but he had important political jobs, and in the articles in the paper you would have thought he was attacking himself.’
Milena had passed away in March the previous year. A lingering death, a horrible illness. Pierre understood that the illness had been fatal for his father as well. He had thought he would be able to pick himself up by throwing himself headlong into politics. Milovan Djilas wrote his critical articles for the Party newspaper, and Vittorio had followed his example in a few local or Italian-language dailies. It had been a time of hope and enthusiasm. Then, all of a sudden, disaster struck. Djilas had been released from all his positions, and forced to engage in self-criticism. His most fortunate followers had had to leave their jobs and politics. In most cases they had been removed from their villages, from their friends and family.
‘And it hasn’t stopped there. They’re turning up the heat. People are saying that sooner or later, the moment the Western press stops taking an interest, we’ll be taken to the concentration camp for members of the Cominform, unceremoniously thrown out of the country. That’s why anyone who walks down my path finds themselves staring down the barrel of a Mauser. I’m just waiting for them to come. Every day. But it’s no way to live, always on the alert, always anxious. But you see, I can’t trust anyone, and I’ve had to sever my connections with my friends as well, to keep them out of it.’
‘With Darko too, isn’t that right?’ Pierre intervened, kicking a pine tree.
‘With him too. I’m alone. In the village they think I’m mad. They’re ignorant enough not to know why I’ve come up here. They buy my cheese, and they’re afraid of the Mauser and the dogs. That’s our relationship. Just that.’
Vittorio drew himself to his feet. He brought a hand to the small of his back, and stretched himself. ‘The damp is killing me,’ he observed with resignation. Then he slipped two fingers between his lips and whistled loudly. From a low bush there emerged a sheepdog that Pierre hadn’t noticed before. It came bounding down the slope, and stopped in front of Vittorio, to have its muzzle stroked. His master complied, then held his arm in front of him and allowed the dog to snap at it playfully. He picked up a leather bag and slung it over his shoulder. The moment his back was turned, the dog charged up the hill, barking at the goats to get them to assemble.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Pierre, enthralled by the dog’s skill at corralling the herd.
‘Radko,’ his father replied, clapping his hands to impose an aboutturn on a ginger ram.
Radko seemed to understand that he was being talked about, and came down to sniff the new arrival.
‘He seems more sociable with strangers than you,’ commented Pierre, at the sight of the dog’s joyfully wagging tail.
‘Sure. But you have to see what he turns into if you try even to raise your voice at yours truly.’
Pierre put it to the test. Radko immediately started snarling, his fangs bared, crouching and ready to jump.
‘OK, OK, I was joking.’
He raised his arms in the air, to demonstrate his innocence.
Radko went back to his master, who had been walking in the dusty path. He joined him, darting ahead every now and again.
Pierre watched their progress, in the noonday sun, against the background of a choppy sea.
Chapter 43
Naples, 19 April
Something had changed, inside. He was upset, bloated, he’d lost his perspective on things. Blind. And mute. Not deaf, he could still hear properly. Perhaps it was the accumulated damp of that dusty hovel, or the dust itself, or the rough hands of that guy who had shaken him like that. Perhaps it was a depression caused by the unforgiving nature of his surroundings. But once everything was sorted out he could get going again. He would be able to get out of that insalubrious place, which was unworthy of him: you had to have confidence. Full stop.
What was the president always saying to his men? ‘On the wings of our products and of technological progress, borders will be eliminated. You will be at home anywhere in the world!’
Exactly. That was how it would be. Although, logically, you had to allow for the initial backwardness of the people that the latest models reached. It was all a matter of time and habit.
He felt like a pioneer. The Pilgrim Fathers’ route retraced to dispense a new Word, to display the new miracle. Endangering his own safety at the clumsy hands of four troglodytes was the smallest possible stake for such an important game.
The president got it right: ‘When you go around the world, be proud to be Western. Bear the message of your country proudly. You will find your place.’
He was a McGuffin. He had a mission.
‘Gigino, Ciro Stecchino dropped by, he says his girlfriend’s dying to have one, he’s going to come in tomorrow and talk money, keep it for him, set it to one side, he really wants it.’
You see?
Chapter 44
Somewhere near Colchester, Essex, UK, 24 April
He was in a terrible mood.
He hadn’t had a minute’s sleep. The military plane that had brought him from the United States was the most uncomfortable crock it had ever been his misfortune to travel in: poor air pressure, noisy, freezing. It had landed at the military airport near London, just long enough for a piss, and had set off again straight away. This time it was a Bentley with all mod cons, right into the heart of Essex, to the country home of Sir Charles Tilston Bright. He hoped he would at least be able to shower.
The English countryside was soporific. Cary didn’t agree with those who said it was boring. Certainly, it lacked the variety of a mountain vista, or even the romantic touch of a coast over the sea, but if you made an effort there was a certain fascination in the succession of identical ploughed fields, cottages and rows of trees. There was the possibility of something happening, especially when the fog came down like the dry ice that conjurors use to make their performances more spectacular. Any kind of situation could come out of the top hat, even a secret meeting between a famous Hollywood actor and a head of British intelligence with an interest in a film about Marshal Tito.