Pierre managed another laugh. He was depressed and confused, but of one thing he was certain. He would not let himself go, he would not stop looking after his appearance, he would not get drunk. If meeting Cary Grant had meant anything at all, it was that. He imagined Cary putting a hand on his shoulders and saying, ‘Don’t give up, Robespierre. The important thing isn’t winning or losing, but staying impeccable. And that’s the hardest thing of all, because in order to live we sometimes have to get our hands dirty.’
Pierre gritted his teeth, straightened the lapel of his jacket and uncricked his neck. Too difficult?
‘Style is showing yourself that you’re still up to the job.’
He smiled crookedly, the bitterest smile he had ever seen in the mirror.
After ten hours of travelling, Gulliver was exhausted. Never in his life had he felt so tired. A strong head wind had caused him difficulties for a long time. It might well have been the hardest thing he had ever tried to do.
But now he was starting to recognise places, he couldn’t give up. He had already been to these parts in preparation. He clearly remembered the shape of the river, the geometry of the cypresses, the crumbling building at the top of the hill. Each metre he took gave him a sharp pain in the back, but he had done it. He was going home.
He saw the white tower in the middle of the bright grey of the meadow.
He saw the bridges stretched out along the river.
He saw the roofs and the chimneys of the houses. He knew every tile in the place.
He saw Tommaso waving his arms about, the banner in his hand. He folded his wings with one last effort and floated down over the dovecote.
He was welcomed with a mixture of joy and astonishment, an exchange of smiles and slaps on the back. ‘You see who’s back? There’s no one like Gulliver!’ ‘Sasha will set off tomorrow, eh?’ ‘A shame he’s the last one. It’ll be a while before we do another swap with Dubrovnik.’ Tommaso took the dice-box from the pigeon’s leg and read out the message to everyone:
Dear friends,
We hope that Gulliver comes home safe and sound. Our Pale arrived without any difficulties. It is the first time that one of our birds has flown more than 700 kilometres. We are very happy. Along with this please find a message that you must pass on to ROBESPIERRE CAPPONI, Bar Aurora, San Donato, Bologna. Tell this person that he can reply with Sasha. So don’t let him leave. Wait till the end of the month.
See you soon. Stane and all your friends in the ‘Brez Meja’ Circle, Dubrovnik.
Chapter 25
Nice, 3 June
On the winding road between Cannes and Nice, Zollo ran through the previous forty-eight hours in his mind.
He felt as though he was on the dodgems at a funfair, forced to drive while at the same time throwing hoops over the heads of ducklings.
Hard to understand the turn that things were taking. Just two days previously they had driven all the way up to Marseilles, for Luciano. Then the harder part: the meeting with Lyonnese Toni at the Cannes Casino. Negotiating the sale of his share of the drugs. Stefano Zollo’s drugs, travelling around Italy in a television set. A reckless bluff. Going for broke.
Good thinking on Shithead’s part, doing that number with the Chinaman. He had won a great pile of money, now safely inside the spare wheel. That fuckhead Pagano. All eyes on them: even those of Cary Grant, Alfred Hitchcock and that amazing woman Grace Kelly. So much for not getting noticed. Fuck, he hadn’t seen many blondes like that. Eyes that flashed through you. If he ever managed to get the heroin back, he would pick one like that. He wouldn’t leave her short of anything, he would spoil her with the best things available. He would carry her on his fingertips and make love to her until she was out of her mind. No more orders or bullshit to cart about in the truck, no more crap, just good restaurants and sun on her skin. Steve Cement’s pension. A new man, a new life, even a new face if necessary. You can do anything at all if you’ve got the money. He had to find that television.
He rounded the bend, two wheels on the gravel, steered in and stayed on the road. He was in a hurry. Shithead had to be picked up as soon as possible, before he fucked anything else up.
He had been happy enough about the offer to shoot that scene just because that morning he was to meet Monsieur Alain and he wanted him out from under his feet.
The buyer for his drugs was an important fat guy. A sweaty whale in a white suit. ‘Moby Dick’ they called him, according to Toni. Affected manners, like a rich fag. Genuine interest. He had tried it. He had nodded. C’est bon, we’ll do it. Zollo had said, ‘A month.’
Not any more. He had to get that TV back. He had to work for Luciano. A month and he would be reunited with the whole of his share.
He had held out a sweaty hand. He had gone to the restaurant. He had met Toni and agreed the commission.
Then off to Nice, to pick up the silver screen’s bright new star.
‘Can you please explain to the boy that he’s not really supposed to hit him?’
The assistant director finished dabbing the actor’s nose and sent him off to the make-up girl to hide the bruise.
‘The boy says it was self-defence,’ said the interpreter.
‘Defence? He butted him on the nose! Try and get it into his head that the scene’s supposed to be realistic, not real!’
‘I told him, boss, but the boy says he was was being suffocated, and he had to hit him to break free.’
The assistant director wiped the sweat from under his hat and glanced towards Hitchcock, who was sitting placidly behind the camera, looking amused.
What was so funny?
He went over to him. ‘Mr Hitchcock, that Italian is a savage, he’s almost knocked out one of our actors.’
‘Fine, fine. The scene was perfect.’
‘What? You don’t want to do another take?’
‘Sure, it’s always good to have a few, but as far as I was concerned it was excellent. The boy is agile! Did you see that jump? Extraordinary!’
‘But. ’
Hitchcock waved the assistant-director away. He nodded to the leading man, whose hair was being retouched.
Grant rose to his feet and went over to him.
‘So what do you think, are we doing it again?’
‘Why not? It’s the funniest scene in the film.’
Hitchcock turned to the assistant director. ‘More flowers, I want more flowers, they’ve got to be drowning in flowers, ok? And tell the old woman to put some energy into those fists of hers. She’s furious, they’ve just knocked over her stall.’
Grant glanced at him. ‘I hope you’re not planning on hiding a baseball bat in that bunch of flowers, old man? If I end up with a fractured skull who’s going to finish the film for you?’
‘Stop complaining. People will split their sides laughing, you’ll see. That’s all that matters with a scene like this: from Laurel and Hardy to Charlie Chaplin, from Buster Keaton to Douglas Fairbanks. But above all there’s the original Cary Grant, the acrobat, his clownish mind. It’s your rentrée, we’ll show everyone we’re still a duo to be reckoned with.’
‘My tears are falling, old man,’ Grant observed with an ironic smile.
‘Back to work, before the light fades! And tell the boy to go easy.’
The scene was feverish, a brawl in the middle of the flowers, with Cary Grant’s head peeping out, wearing a striped shirt and a red scarf around his neck.
An old woman started yelling something at him in French, and beating him with a bunch of flowers.
Zollo turned up just in time to see Salvatore Pagano, known as Kociss, along with two other guys, leaping into the fray.