* * *
She spoke to the police later in the evening, broke her promise and called them to complain. She held her hand over her stomach, sometimes looking at Niccolò, and sometimes at the wall as she cleared up the confusion.
‘Someone called. I don’t think he would make that up. Someone invited him into the city,’ and then, with genuine anger. ‘That isn’t how it works.’
He knows what she will say. This is his story, although, to be honest, he’s sick of hearing it. Two years, she’ll say, he nearly died. They held him down, she’ll say, a foot on his neck, she’ll say, they beat him with a metal pole. She’ll try not to tap her head as she talks. She might give the detail about how he came across them, a band of men in one of the warehouses stripping out the units. She will explain how, even after the police had caught them, they couldn’t really explain why they’d done it. We’d already got what we came for. When it was done they took the pole with them and drove away, and nobody knows this except Niccolò, how he managed to get himself to the security barrier. From the warehouse to the barrier. It wouldn’t take two minutes to walk, but it took him all night and he made it on his belly, with his fingers in the dust and his toes pointing and pushing to drive himself forward across a concrete lot, across a rough stretch of scrub, across the open parking lot, all the way to the security barrier. The report says that the men dragged him, propped him up against the barrier and left him, but no, Niccolò had focused on the barrier and made it the whole way by himself. He knew what lonely was, he knew what effort was and what it cost him, that crawling on his belly to that barrier was something almost beyond him, an ocean to swim, or like turning bone to metal through pure force of will. He knew that when you have to focus on your breathing you are in trouble. He understood that everything comes at you one moment at a time, and when it came down to it he either made it to the barrier or he didn’t. He either survived or he did not.
Livia had one or two stories about her brother depending on her mood. Story one was always the attack, how she had heard this on the national news, about how she had stood up and screamed and screamed with grief. Story two, more often than not, was the story about how his wife had left him, taken their daughter and moved back north to Rivara, because he did not know who they were. He knew who they were in common ways, he could remember their histories, the birthdays, the courtship with his wife, but these events no longer had content, and while he knew enough to sometimes feel guilt, even that was not sustained. He knew that he had loved his wife. He just didn’t currently understand what that meant. She told this story when she was angry, or when she wanted to become angry. She didn’t speak about the day he married, his daughter’s birth. She didn’t explain that she had taught him to swim, and how beautiful he was, my god, how incredibly handsome, floating free of her arms, just loose, present, so very alive, and that every day she had to steel her heart because she was looking at someone who both was and wasn’t her brother, and how her only wish was to have him back. She didn’t speak about how easy he was, about how, before all of this Niccolò Scafuti didn’t have one miserable bone in his body. She hid the photos in his apartment for herself because she no longer believed in that perfect world.
TUESDAY: DAY P
Niccolò arrived early for work and sat in the booth frustrated. On the horizon hung one long grey cloud, smog rising from the city.
Fede sent Stiki up to the main building with the report and the logbook, he wanted to speak with Niccolò. Out on the counter were his study books, an English-language primer and an English-language newspaper. Niccolò was in no mood to talk, but seeing the newspaper, he asked Federico if he could read English.
‘Yes. Of course. My reading is better than my speaking. With reading,’ he explained, ‘I can take my time. As long as the subject isn’t too technical. That’s why a newspaper is good.’ Fede set his books away, and slipped the small and worn dictionary into a drawer beneath the desk. ‘I can manage. So did they say anything? Yesterday. The police?’
Niccolò took the student’s notebook from his pocket and set it on the desk. The notebook was almost full now, fat with newspaper clippings.
‘What’s this?’
Niccolò pushed the notebook across the desk.
Fede picked up the small book and looked through the pages, slowly turning and reading. ‘Do you understand any of this?’
Niccolò shook his head and asked if Fede could make any sense out of it.
‘No, it’s difficult.’ Fede frowned at the pages. ‘Tricky.’ The writing was small and slanted, difficult to read. He glanced quickly through the other pages; his head made a small bird-like peck when he came to the clippings. ‘What are these? What is this book? Where is it from?’ Fede closed the book and looked at the cover. He didn’t understand. ‘Surely this is evidence? Why haven’t you handed it to the police?’
Niccolò said that the police didn’t know about it, yet.
‘But I saw them myself, they had a whole team of men, they wouldn’t have missed it?’ Federico placed the book down on the desk. ‘You found this in the field? Why didn’t you give it to them yesterday?’ Federico opened the cover. ‘If this is the American’s notebook it might be important. It belongs to his family. You can’t keep it. You understand? They might be able to tell who he is. His family will want to know. You should call them immediately. I mean now. You should tell them now. Any news about this person is important.’
When Stiki returned he stood outside the booth and asked what was wrong. Fede shook his head and said it was nothing. Nothing he needed to explain.
Sparrows squabbled in the dirt.
* * *
Once they were gone Niccolò attempted to settle into work. Taking out Fede’s books he spread them across the desk, then adjusted the seat, raising it so he could sit comfortably and face the view.
Little happened for the first hour. The plant was located on the outskirts of the town and the road led directly to the factory. Lovers searching for discreet roads and parks would make their slow way up the hill, but few stopped long. From the cubicle he could see the edge of Naples, a vast yellow spill slipping into a solid blue sky. Aircraft coming in and out of the airport slid slowly beside the hill, gaining height over the bay.
Disturbed by his discussion with Fede, Niccolò could not settle. He spread out the newspaper and kept the notebook underneath. Throughout the morning he considered what he should do, and the problem bore into him. He should take the notebook to the police, he decided. He could say that he’d found it on the wasteland after the search, that there was an area close to the houses where everyone parked their cars. It would be better to be rid of it.
* * *
Fede returned in the early afternoon and asked directly, coldly, if Niccolò had gone to the police. Irked by the question, Niccolò shrugged him off. He’d come all the way back to ask him that? Fede stepped into the office and asked immediately, ‘What’s that smell?’ He saw ash on the ring burner, saw how the wall was scorched, and turned in disbelief to Niccolò. Niccolò, as usual, was due to take the report forms and ledger to the central security office, and he used this as an excuse to leave Fede. When he returned from the main building he was pleased that Fede had gone. He sorted through the newspapers stacked under the desk, and looked quickly through them to see if there were any reports he might have overlooked before he threw them away. The day was bright; a soft wind came off the bay directly onto the mountain, and with it came a sweet smell, and again the faint brittle stink of fire.