Pierre thought about his own wallet, his debt with Fanti and the one he had with Ettore. His stomach lurched again. He said, ‘You have to keep your feet on the ground.’
‘While we’re on the subject of feet, are you on foot yourself, or could you possibly give me a lift home? I live in Mazzini. Usually I come here with my flatmate, who’s got a bike, but she’s gone to see her family in Molinella.’
It wasn’t hard to work out what was going to happen. It had never happened to Pierre so quickly. And not only that, but she lived on her own, with a friend. Brando was right, she really was ‘easy’. She had fallen from the sky for him. All of a sudden he thought of Angela, Ferruccio who had gone round the bend, and who knows how she must be feeling. He couldn’t take so much as a sip, he felt as though he was hunched inside his suit.
‘I’m sorry. Really. But I’m walking too.’
Gilda’s bitter smile spoke volumes. ‘Some other time, then.’
‘Yes, definitely.’
At that moment, Gigi appeared out of the crowd and grabbed Pierre by the jacket. ‘Pierre, the bend-down-and-turn-around! Let’s go!’
As he was being dragged towards the dance floor he heard Gilda calling to him.
‘Pierre!’ She was wearing a sly expression. ‘Careful you don’t keep your feet so firmly on the ground that you bash your face against it.’
Half dazed, he found himself dancing again, trying to follow the urgent rhythm of the band. He had to make an effort, he felt he was always late on the beat, but he tried to do his best. As the music swelled he was emboldened, let himself go, his feet moved very rapidly, yes, damn it, he was still the best! He let himself be swept away by the rhythm, more smoothly than ever, quick and coordinated, light as a feather, the people were clapping.
It happened in a fraction of a second. Someone must have spilled something on the dancefloor. His leading foot went off all by itself, he instinctively tried to jerk himself upright again, he went careering forwards and couldn’t stop.
When he lifted his face from the floor he noticed a few drops of blood on the tiles. His nose hurt like hell.
Gigi and Sticleina helped him to his feet, the band had stopped playing. The accordionist leaned forwards from the stage, worried. ‘Son, are you ok?’
‘It’s nothing, I just slipped,’ said Pierre, dabbing at his nose.
He looked around, everyone was staring at him. That had never happened before. He could read a strange anxiety in their eyes. They felt disappointed and betrayed: the king had fallen from his throne, and he hadn’t even been pushed.
‘And give that floor a good clean,’ snarled Gigi as he shoved Pierre towards the toilets.
He asked his friends to let him go in on his own and they, like faithful vassals, lowered their eyes modestly as they moved away. They went and stood in front of the door, like a picket.
He washed his face with the freezing water and stopped to look at himself in the mirror, his mouth and chin striped with blood.
What the hell was happening to him? Was it a punishment for leaving Angela on her own? For not taking Gilda home?
As he wiped his face with his handkerchief he murmured to himself, ‘That would never have happened to Cary Grant.’
Then he became aware of a presence behind him, looked up at the mirror and saw him emerging from one of the cubicles. He was elegant, almost dapper, and wearing a good suit.
‘It looks as though the king has lost his sheen.’
Ettore’s voice was soft and insinuating.
He washed his hands, dried them carefully, straightened his narrow moustache and adjusted his collar.
‘You came back sooner than expected. Problems?’
‘I ran out of money. I came back on a ship.’
Ettore nodded.
‘You and I had an agreement. I hope you haven’t forgotten it.’
Pierre leaned on the basin.
‘I know. Don’t worry.’
‘Fine. Then drop by the office one of these days and we’ll talk about it.’
He was already halfway out the door when he turned round and added, ‘Ah, Pierre, a word of advice: stay away from the Redhead, she’s trouble. A good few guys have lost their heads over her. Mark my words.’
He went out, closing the door behind him.
Pierre stared at the floor and thought about how complicated life could get from one day to the next.
Chapter 3
Bologna, night between 5 and 6 May
Ettore didn’t ride a bike. He preferred to walk. ‘I cycled in my partisan days,’ he said, ‘and now I don’t cycle any more.’
He lived near Porta San Felice and walked to the workshop. To go dancing or go and see a film, he put on a good suit with a well-pressed collar, the right tie and gleaming shoes. He preferred to walk under the arcades, to show off the crease in his trousers falling like a plumb-line.
And if you had a woman, why carry her on the bar of your bicycle that hurts her bum, rather than taking her by the arm? Strolling, as though there was nothing worth hurrying for, not even making love.
It was a reaction to the ‘job’ he did: always up and down, back and forth, never missing appointments, getting the goods there on time, putting his foot down, covering the greatest possible distance before he got tired.
In his free time, he wanted nothing to do with wheels and speed.
And anyway, he lived in the centre, on his own, and his bed was big enough for two. Bringing women home was easy.
That night, leaving ‘Seventh Heaven’, Ettore was alone and thoughtful.
He was thirty years old and he had a vague but well-founded reputation as a layabout. The Party and the National Partisans’ Association had expelled him for ‘moral turpitude’ in 1949, but no one knew the real reason. People talked about drugs, prostitution and who knows what else.
It should be pointed out that these things were said in his absence, to avoid a good kicking. *
Ettore Bergamini had been a partisan at Monte Sole, in the Apennines, with the ‘Red Star’ Brigade led by Mario Musolesi, the mythical Lupo, the ‘Wolf’.
He had been involved in extremely violent and interminable gunfights.
He had used explosives, stretched ambush wires, executed enemies, fought shoulder to shoulder with Englishmen, Czechs, Russians and even one Indian. Sad. Not a redskin, an Indian from India, with a turban on his head.
He had seen Ettore Ventura, the ‘Aeroplane’, charging Germans riding on a white horse.
He had seen Fonso’s mother turn up right in the middle of a battle, heedless of the bullets, an expedition of several kilometres, to bring her son a bowl of zabaglione.
‘Poor thing, you’ve been fighting for hours, and you haven’t had a bite to eat!’
Fonso had looked at her, shocked, unable to believe his eyes.
Then he had drunk the zabaglione, and said, ‘Thanks, mamma. But now get yourself to safety!’
On 27 June, because of serious strategic and political differences with the Wolf, Sugano Melchiorri had formed a new battalion of fortysix partisans. One of them was Ettore.
After a thousand vicissitudes, ‘Red Star’ Sugano had gone down into the plain and joined the 7th partisan group, Anzola detachment. Those had been the last times Ettore had used a bicycle. There he had met Amleto Benini, ‘Bianco’ (because of his grey hair), who would later give him a job. This job.
In October ’44 they had taken part in the battle of Porta Lame, three incredible days, the only open clash between Germans and partisans inside a European city.
On 21 April ’45 Ettore had liberated Bologna, along with his other comrades.
Sure, but who had they liberated it from?