Zanasi was arrested along with another man who had just taken a few knocks, two riot police ended up in hospital, and five placards were confiscated.
Bottone was limping by the time he arrived at the gardens, from a kick in the shin that he claimed had been delivered by the marshal in person; Garibaldi’s shirt was torn off in the scuffle, and Walterún, by way of consolation, offered him a glass at the wine stall. But there was nothing to be done, he would just have to live with it, and he was worried that his wife would chew his face off when he got home.
Chapter 55
Between Dubrovnik and Bari, 1 May
At the end of the day he didn’t mind the sea. Let’s not get carried away, now, but he had developed a certain affection for it. Ok, the smell of the docks turned his stomach, he hated the salt on his skin, and the lounge bar millionaires with their passion for sailing; in spite of that, when he fantasised about the place where he would spend his last years, without even doing it on purpose he always found himself there, with his arse in the sun and the sea in front of him. It wasn’t a conscious choice: his selection was guided by more important criteria.
First of all a place where Luciano wouldn’t have any contacts. That ruled out a good proportion of the planet: at least all of the United States, a good chunk of Central America and the more civilised countries of the old continent.
Second, there couldn’t be any fanatics around, it would be politically calm and the laws were very comprehensive, with citizens dedicated to alcohol, gambling and fornication. That completely ruled out Muslim countries, Soviet satellites and colonies in ferment.
Third, there would have to be at least one bar within a radius of five kilometres where the barman didn’t serve bourbon instead of Scotch, and was capable of shaking up a decent Manhattan. Which ruled out Central Africa, India and possibly even Japan.
Fourth, the most you would need in the depths of winter was a woolly jumper. Out went Scandinavia, Canada and England.
Clearly, the sea wasn’t on the list of basic requirements. And yet it came up time and again. Perhaps because Steve had learned his geography from cabin boys and bo’suns and couldn’t think of a single town that didn’t at least look out on an ocean.
Or perhaps because he had always lived in cities by the sea, even if, in New York, there are children in Queens who have never been to Coney Island or Orchard Beach, and don’t even know that the ocean begins just beyond the Verrazzano Narrows Bridge. Because, in the end, Upper Bay is very like a lake, and you can be sure that the guy who drives the Staten Island ferry wouldn’t be able to pilot a dinghy on the open sea.
So, to recapitulate: Montevideo? Full of Italians. And they have cold winters down there. The Bahamas? Too many goddamned Americans. Or how about Sydney? No, Steve, too many Italians in Sydney too; what about New Zealand? No, it would get cold down there too from time to time. Hong Kong? Singapore? Could they make a decent Manhattan in Singapore?
The sailor had told him to behave himself in there and make sure nobody saw him. It probably wasn’t in the captain’s interests to report him once they’d got there, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to worry him, either. He wasn’t a very understanding guy.
For the first two hours of the journey, Pierre remained true to the task. Crouching in his hole, with the little cage between his knees and the leather bag under his arm, he did everything he could think of to go to sleep, the only way he could give his stomach peace. But not even a fakir could have put him to sleep in those conditions. There was a terrible heat, the air was dense, a compress of salt and lubricants on the skin, the taste of rotten fish in his mouth and nose. Chin resting on his knees, Pierre kept his eyes on his travelling companion, concerned that it might drop dead at any moment.
He knew it would not survive for long.
He had to get out of there. Stick two fingers in his throat and that would be that. Otherwise, he risked throwing up in his hiding place, and drowning the pigeon. A terrible way to go.
The outline of the mountains dissolved on the horizon, there was nothing but water all around. Zollo headed towards the hold for his usual mid-crossing check. With a cargo like this, you could never be careful enough. He chucked his cigarette end over the parapet and started climbing down the stairs towards the lower deck.
When he had reached the bottom, just before he got to the hatch, a noise to his right attracted his attention. If it was something human, it was not unlike the final appeal that J. J. Clancy Frongillo had made to the world, before dying with his windpipe crushed by the thumbs of Steve Cement. Zollo leaned forward, over the base of a gigantic goods lift, and saw someone behind it, bent double, one hand on the wall and the other clutching his guts. Between his open legs, a pigeon stared at him from behind the bars of a cage.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Zollo asked the pigeon, when the retching noises stopped.
The guy just turned his head, didn’t change his position. A boy. He mumbled something incomprehensible, then managed to articulate, in English: ‘Wh-what?’
The trick of speaking English always worked with the police in Bologna. It gained you a couple of minutes, long enough to make up a story. Pierre undoubtedly needed it. The guy with the Sicilian accent standing in front of him was pretty big and, to judge by his clothes, he didn’t come up with the last drop of rain.
‘You’re not in the crew, are you? Who are you?’
As with Cary Grant, Pierre managed to catch only the last part of the question. The guy spoke much better English than he did. That had never happened with the police in Bologna. Better get a move on.
‘My name is Robespierre Capponi,’ he said in Italian. ‘I embarked at Dubrovnik.’
‘You did? And how the fuck did you get on board?’
The sailor had told him clearly: if they discover you, don’t give my name. They won’t touch you, they don’t want any problems with customs. I’d lose my job.
He had an answer ready. ‘Last night, as they were loading the ship, I hid among the cases and climbed on board.’
‘You’ve really fucked up. Why?’
‘I was supposed to be coming back with a friend, but I had a mishap and had to leave early.’
‘What kind of mishap?’
Pierre shook his head. ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’
Zollo went over to the boy, wearing a face that would have put the wind up a wolf.
‘Listen to me carefully, boy. I don’t give a flying fuck about what happened to you. Now tell me the whole thing again, but cut the crap this time, ok?’ It was one of the longest sentences he had ever spoken to a foreigner.
‘Done,’ Pierre replied, icebergs in his veins. ‘I’ll start at the beginning: I was on an island, to find my father, and we were minding our own business when someone tried to kidnap Cary Grant, who was on the island as well, I know it’s incredible, but that’s what happened, I swear, so then my father fired and the kidnappers escaped —’
‘Horseshit!’ Zollo interrupted. ‘What does Cary Grant have to do with it? Yesterday evening the ferry set off for Bari. If you were in such a hurry, you could have taken that.’
‘What? Where would I have got the money?’
‘I see. The money’s the problem.’
‘Yes. that is no, in fact, I told you: this thing that happened…’ Pierre didn’t mention the actor’s name again to avoid annoying the man. ‘Hang on, look at this, I’ve got proof.’ He rummaged in his bag and took out the copy of Casino Royale. ‘You see this book? In English? You can’t get it in Italy. He gave it to me in person, that is, he left it on the beach and I. ’