In the course of those few minutes Marco was stripped of everything. And he was shaken, even though he had hated his life almost every day he had lived.
He got to his feet and looked around. He was aware that he had a better head on him than most, but he had not known how painful this could be.
So who were they all now? Was Zola, who called himself his uncle, perhaps not even his father’s brother? And were his cousins just some random children?
And if so, where was his real family? Who was he?
Therefore, Marco considered the day that one newspaper had referred to as the dullest in history as the day that had fostered the worst that could ever befall him: the birth of Zola. The one who beat and tormented them and forced them to beg and steal. The one who forbade them to go to school and denied them the chance to live their lives like everyone else. Zola, who with God’s help now had more power over them than ever before.
The eleventh of April 1954, he’d said.
It was a day Marco truly loathed.
–
Some four years had now passed since Zola had made that speech and elevated himself by the grace of God to clan leader. It had been four years of terror and angst like never before.
The night following his address they decamped, leaving behind everything that belonged to their nomadic existence: tents, Primus stoves, cooking utensils, and many of the primitive tools they employed in their break-ins. The group numbered twenty adults and as many children, all dressed in their finest clothes that they had stolen from the outfitters of Perugia.
As they journeyed through northern Italy, Austria, and Germany during the days that followed, they broke into a total of ten shiny luxury cars with leather interiors, equipping them with false number plates and then heading in a convoy for the border of Germany and Poland at Swiecko and on toward Poznan. No one mentioned how they got rid of the vehicles and how much money they brought in, but one night the whole group found itself traveling northward by train through the Polish night. Some said Zola had summoned two of the men to his compartment to guard the money, and Marco mused that if the job required the services of two, then the sum must be large indeed.
In the ensuing months, Zola demonstrated to them unambiguously what he meant when he had told them new times lay ahead. In any case, these new times were in no way synonymous with good times, and so it was that several members of the clan disappeared without a word. Marco knew why. They had grown sick of beatings, being forced to work, and a life of need.
Everyone in the group knew Zola was a wealthy man and that he loved his money. He always had. The problem was that he kept it all for himself, coercing the others by means of threats into earning more each day. The begging and the stealing on which the clan had survived all through Marco’s life was destined to continue as before.
When winter came they settled in Denmark, renting two adjoining single-story homes on a residential street within comfortable striking distance of Copenhagen. By then their numbers had fallen to only twenty-five in all, and had it not been for Marco’s father’s weak character, he and Marco would probably have disappeared along with the other apostates and the woman Marco had called his mother, and who no longer was mentioned by anyone.
Zola gathered the group together at regular intervals and equipped them with new, presentable clothing. He told them it made a better impression out on the streets. The women and young girls were given long skirts and tight, colorful tops; the men received dark suits and black shoes. Marco found it both wrong and impractical to sit on the pavement begging in his fine clothes, but it was another matter when picking pockets, snatching bags, or breaking and entering. In such cases, the suit was a help, making him a less conspicuous culprit.
In this way three and a half years had passed.
–
After battling the snow and strong winds, Zola, his brother, and their helper, Chris, eventually found the place in the woods where they had buried the body. The dog was with them, though in the circumstances it had been of little help. Frost and wind had banished all scent from the landscape, the ice-blue glare and glittering crystals of snow conspiring to conflate all visual impressions. It was sheer hell to be out in such weather.
“Goddammit, why didn’t we do this before the weather turned? Now the ground’s as hard as stone, we’ll have to hack the corpse free,” Zola’s brother cursed, but Zola was not dissatisfied. Traces of a decomposed body were almost impossible to remove from the ground under normal conditions. A frozen one was that much better.
The most important thing, however, was that they had found it.
But Zola’s spirits sank a moment later when Chris brushed away loose dirt from the body and its red hair lit up like a torch against the white background. Why was it not covered in earth?
“Do you think some animal’s been at work here?” Marco’s father wondered.
It was a naive question. What animal of decent size and strength would not have gnawed on the meat? None of which Zola was aware. The hound at his side, at least, could hardly contain itself, even though the corpse was frozen solid.
“I thought I told you to keep the beast in check, Chris,” he hissed. “Tie it to the tree and start digging the body out.”
Zola turned to his brother. “Unless he was still alive when we chucked him in the hole, someone else has been here.”
“He was dead,” his brother replied.
Zola nodded. Of course he had been dead, but who had removed the earth around the body and yet not raised the alarm? There were even finger marks where the soil had been scraped away.
His eyes scanned the scene in detail, stopping at the thin branch of a fir tree that reached out over the hole. It was covered in snow, but at its tip something was visible that obviously did not belong.
Zola nudged the branch with his boot, sending a powdery cloud of snow over the corpse and prompting him to shield his eyes.
“Do you recognize this piece of material?” he asked, pointing to the little shred caught on the point of the branch.
The way the color disappeared from his brother’s face was answer enough.
Zola considered the situation. “Disastrous” was probably the best way to describe it.
“So now we know why we didn’t find Marco that night. He was lying in this hole while we were out searching for him. He may even have heard what I said to you.”
Zola’s brother’s eyes were dark and troubled as he stared disconsolately back at his leader. Desperation had set in, and that was the difference between them. Zola never grew desperate. That was why his younger brother had been appointed bloodhound.
“I can see from your expression that you realize I need to think about this. Only now there is no way back, do you understand me?”
His brother nodded almost imperceptibly, more a tremble than a nod. It was all he could muster.
“But that’s how things stand now, and you need to grasp the fact. Marco must be eliminated. Completely eliminated.”
–
Money aside, to a man such as Zola only two things really mattered: awe and respect from those around him. Without them, he would be unable to manage the clan. Without the aura of divine light in which he always took care to be reflected, there would be limits to what he could demand of his subjects. The absence of these limits was crucial.
The years in Denmark had been good to them. The Schengen Agreement, the police reforms that had increased bureaucracy and reduced the numbers of police on the street, the cutbacks in public services, all had been beneficial to Zola’s setting up a network that took on all manner of shady activity. Here in Kregme, they could live without risk of being checked by the authorities, unless they were reported by neighbors. From Denmark, stolen goods could be transported across the borders without control. And within Denmark it was easy to recruit any number of Balts, Russians, and Africans, already resident in the country with the purpose of milking its hubristic abundance in every conceivable and inconceivable way. As long as he could keep the Eastern Europeans in check and his own clan in reverential esteem all was in order. But Zola was wary of the downside. The moment he showed signs of weakness, there were those in the group who would gladly and unscrupulously attempt to topple him from the throne.