They lingered at the port for an hour, dissatisfied with each other, unspeaking and uncertain. The bear clutched tight in defiance. Rafí sat with his back to her and turned on occasion to give a look of utter disgust. Both were surprised to see Cecco walk immediately by them, close, but so preoccupied he saw nothing but the pavement ahead. Cecco wandered along the promenade, paused to see what the fishermen had caught, then ambled by the ticket office.
Rafí tightened the distance between them. He was learning nothing, he told Lila, this watching and waiting was a waste of time. If he wanted his money he would need to get closer, and when Cecco clambered delicately down to the rocks, Rafí came closer. He signalled Lila to stay back.
Cecco sought out a broad flat rock and settled down, he rolled his shirt high over his stomach and gave himself up to the morning sun. Rafí climbed down and Lila hurried after: if she ran now Rafí would catch her, she wouldn’t even make it off the promenade. Cecco lay with his belly exposed, his hands flat to the rock, defenceless.
‘So this is what you do with yourself.’
Rafí stood with the sun over his shoulder so that Cecco had to squint at him, hand shielding his eyes. Cecco managed a small hello and looked feebly about him. His gestures, his expression were the sure signs of a guilty man.
‘You’re sweating.’
It would be easy to pick up one of the smooth black rocks and belt Rafí while he was preoccupied, and who would stop her? Maybe not to kill him, but leave him useless for the rest of his life, with just enough brains to understand what had happened to him and why.
Rafí squatted beside Cecco, patted his friend on his shoulder and asked where he was staying.
‘So? Pozzuoli?’
Cecco gave a nod and then shrugged. He noticed Lila and appeared momentarily relieved.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘With everything. I thought. You know. Why not? Just.’
‘Just keep your head down.’
Cecco sat up on his elbows and nodded earnestly. ‘I was going to call you today.’
‘That’s funny, because I’ve been trying to call you.’
They looked at each other, stalemate.
‘Where are you staying?’
Cecco pointed up the coast to Lucrino, but looked back at the town. There was a woman, he said, a friend, but it was a small place.
Rafí settled on the rock beside him. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. Big or small it would suit him fine. He’d had a rough night.
* * *
Cecco’s woman was not what Lila expected. Cecco passed her photo about. In the picture Stefania sat beside a man in workman’s overalls, perhaps on the same rocks they’d come from. In another she held a ball, just caught or ready to throw, a posed picture. Ridiculous. Shapely, old, homely and content, with deep black eyes drawn in kohl and dark hair bleached to a brittle gold, the woman had married twice and more or less lost both husbands, Cecco explained. She worked at the tabaccaio on via Capasso, and every time he went in he’d spoken with her and got to know her a little.
‘Enough that she looks after you?’
Cecco couldn’t look at Rafí, as if ashamed. He took back the photograph and set it on the small side table. Rafí joked that widows were accommodating, especially the fat ones. He bent down to squint at the photograph and said she looked familiar. The apartment comprised three small rooms, a bedroom, kitchen and a sitting-room cramped with a plump couch and a large television beside a small veranda. There was no evidence of children, and few photographs or certificates.
Rafí sent Lila out to the small hallway. She backed out and watched him scope the room, possibly figuring where Cecco might have concealed the money. The room was busy, unkempt, with small girly keepsakes, china dolls, and soft toys with embroidered clothes that she sold at the shop. On the couch in small boxes were more soft toys with names and hearts sewn onto small jackets, and china ballerinas with real lace skirts. In the kitchen along a small folding table lay lengths of pastel-coloured ribbons cut to the same length with a package of porcelain figurines ready to be assembled and decorated, and she understood that this was how Stefania spent her evenings. Cutting and stitching.
Lila smoked at the veranda doors and took long considered draws. Cecco also smoked, fingers crushing the cigarette. When he caught Lila’s eye he gave a private shrug, a what is he doing, and Lila, in response, shrugged back. How odd this was, how interesting, everything Cecco did just made him look like a thief.
‘You have a paper? A newspaper?’ Rafí asked Cecco.
Cecco looked down in deference. He wiped his hands on his shirt.
‘I need a paper. Go,’ he said, ‘get me one. And get some food.’
Cecco nodded, yes, he’d go. There was one thing though, something important he’d forgotten to explain.
Rafí said that he could tell him when he came back.
Cecco shook his head. No, it was important. Her first husband was a security guard at the port.
‘And?’
‘And he’s dead.’
Rafí, lost for words, looked like he might hit Cecco. Exactly why was this a problem?
‘Because her second husband was in the carabinieri, and he isn’t dead.’ She spoke of him as if he was dead, but he wasn’t. The man was violent and she’d finished with him years ago, but, and this was the problem, he was obsessed with her and sometimes watched the house and deliberately caused trouble.
‘Just get a paper and get me some food.’
Cecco backed out of the room to the door. Lila could hear him running down the stairs.
* * *
With Cecco out of the apartment Rafí hurtled through the rooms. He swept the ornaments off the table, took a paring knife from the kitchen and searched swiftly through the boxes, first opening them then turning them upside down, emptying the contents onto the hard tiled floor until it was covered with small bites of packing foam and shards of shattered china, tiny painted heads and arms and legs, whiter than sugar. The money was not in the boxes. It was not in the drawers, the side cabinet, the dresser. It wasn’t in the cupboard. Under the couch, under the cushions, under the bed. Neither was it stuffed into the pillows or mattress. Rafí reached over the bedroom cupboard and again found nothing. When he stepped back, hands on hips, he looked to Lila, then beyond her, and Lila followed his glance to see Stefania at the doorway, dark eyes, silent, aghast at the chaos and destruction. In five short minutes Rafí had emptied every container and destroyed everything he touched in his search for the money. Scattered among the broken porcelain were pieces of dried pasta, lentils, and pulses. Stefania cringed as he came quickly after her. With the paring knife pointed at her neck he told her to sit down and keep herself absolutely silent.
Stefania swept aside the brittle shards of figurines and slowly sat on the floor, her back to the veranda door.
‘Tell me where he has hidden my money.’
Stefania shook her head and Lila shook her head to warn her.
‘Where — is — my — money?’
Rafí held back her head to expose her throat and drew his arm full out, ready to swipe.
‘Where?’
Stefania pointed to the television. Behind it was a package containing thirty euro, a measly find compared to the size of his loss.
Lila could see Cecco returning through the tunnel, a newspaper in his hand, an anxious hurry to his step, and in total contradiction, a broad smile — when she pointed, Rafí turned, and for no reason she could understand, his face tightened with fury and he bolted out of the room.