During the three years they had now lived in Denmark, he was the only one among them who had learned to speak the language almost fluently. He was simply the only one inquisitive enough to bother.
All the rank-and-file members of the group knew that when Marco was out of sight he was sitting somewhere on his own, immersed in a book.
“Tell us, tell us,” Miryam in particular would urge, she being the one he was closest to.
Zola and his associates would be rather less enthusiastic about his reading habits, if they ever found out.
–
That evening they lay in their bunks listening to the beating and Samuel’s screams as they penetrated the wall of Zola’s room, percolating down to Marco’s like an echo of all the other injustices Zola had committed. Marco himself was unafraid of thrashings, for as a rule they were milder in his case, thanks to the influence of his father. And yet he clutched his blanket: Samuel was no Marco.
When once again silence descended and Samuel’s punishment was over, Marco heard the front door open. It had to be one of Zola’s gorillas, scanning the terrain before dragging the beaten and humiliated Samuel across to the house next door where his room was. The clan members were proficient at keeping up appearances and remaining friendly with the Danish families of the neighborhood. On the face of it, Zola was a somewhat reserved, rather elegant individual, and this was an image he definitely intended to maintain. He knew perfectly well that a presentable white man from the United States, speaking English-a language everyone understood-would in many ways be thought of as one of our own. One of those the Danes had no need to fear.
For that reason, punishment was always administered under cover of darkness behind soundproofed windows and drawn curtains. Similarly, it was imperative that all bruises and other signs of beating were never visible. The fact that Samuel would be aching all over the next morning as he dragged himself up and down Strøget, Copenhagen’s pedestrian shopping street, was another matter entirely, but this, of course, went unnoticed by the masses. Besides, the boy’s miserable appearance was good for business, and all experience showed that genuine displays of discomfort produced a better yield than false ones.
Marco got up in the dark, crept past the room shared by his cousins and knocked cautiously on the door of the living room. If the response was swift, then all was well. Hesitation, and one could never predict the mood Zola might be in.
This time almost a minute passed before he was called in. Marco braced himself.
Zola sat at the tea table like a king at his court, the television news blaring from the gigantic flat screen.
Maybe he brightened slightly when he realized it was Marco, but his hands had yet to stop trembling. Some of the group claimed that Zola liked to watch when they were being punished, but Marco’s father said the opposite: that Zola loved his flock as Jesus loved his disciples.
Marco wasn’t so sure.
For three days and nights, Detective Inspector Carl Mørck sat imprisoned here in this hermetically sealed room in the company of mummified corpses and had… said the voice on the screen.
“Turn that shit off, Chris,” Zola barked, with a nod toward the remote. Within a second it was done.
He patted his new acquisition, a gangling, thin-legged hound no one else dared approach, then fixed his gaze on Marco’s. “How brave of you to give Samuel money today, Marco. But do so again and you’ll be punished in the same way, do you understand?”
Marco nodded.
Zola smiled. “You’ve earned well for us today, Marco. Sit down.” He indicated the chair opposite. “What do you want, my boy? I suppose you’ve come to tell me Samuel didn’t deserve it. Am I right?”
And then his expression changed. With a quick gesture he instructed his near-omnipotent henchman, Chris, to pour tea into a mug. When he had done so, Zola nudged it halfway across the table toward Marco.
“I’m sorry to disturb you here in the living room, Zola. But yes, I wanted to say something about Samuel.”
Zola was impassive as the words were uttered, but Chris straightened up immediately and turned slowly to look at him. He was big and paler than most in the clan. His sallow presence was sufficient to make most in the flock retreat, yet Marco kept his eyes fixed on his uncle.
“I see. But Samuel is none of your concern, Marco. You understand that, I’m sure. Today he didn’t come home with enough earnings because he didn’t try hard enough. Unlike yourself.” Zola shook his head and leaned back heavily against the sheepskin that lay draped over the back of the armchair. “You must learn not to poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Marco. Listen to what your uncle tells you.”
Marco studied him for a moment. In Zola’s view, Samuel, unlike Marco, had not tried hard enough. Was he thereby saying it was indirectly his fault Samuel had been beaten? If so, that would be even worse.
Marco bowed his head and spoke his words as humbly as he was able.
“I know. But Samuel has become too old now to beg on Strøget. Most people ignore him completely, and those who don’t seem afraid of him and keep their distance. In fact, the only ones who-”
Marco sensed Zola making a sign to Chris. He looked up at the same instant as Chris stepped forward and slapped his face hard, making his ear ring.
“I told you, it’s not your business. Do you understand, Marco?”
“Yes, Zola, but-”
Another slap, and the message was received. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone who had been brought up in that environment made a fuss about.
He got to his feet unsteadily, nodded to Zola, and withdrew toward the door, forcing a smile as he went. Two slaps in the face and the audience was over. And still he mustered some courage as he stood in the doorway.
“It’s OK to hit me,” he said, lifting his head. “But it’s not OK to beat Samuel. And if you make that bully hit me again, I’ll run away from here.”
He noted the inquiring look Chris sent his uncle, but Zola merely shook his head, indicating with a sweep of his hand that Marco was to get out of his sight. At once.
–
When he again lay under his blanket he tried as always to run through all the unuttered arguments in his mind. If only he had said this or that, things might have turned out for the better. As Marco lay there in the gloom, Zola often became more reasonable in these inner dialogues, on occasion even acquiescing.
Such thoughts gave solace of a kind.
“Samuel’s a good boy at heart,” he imagined having said to Zola. “He needs to learn, that’s all. If you let him go to school, then maybe he could become a mechanic and look after the van. He’ll never be a good pickpocket like me or Hector, he’s far too clumsy, so why not give him a chance?”
And the words in his head made him feel better for a time. But as soon as he turned off the night lamp, the realities came tumbling down upon him.
The life he and his cousins led was a misery.
On the face of it they were decent people in yellow-brick houses, but the truth was they were criminals and delinquents with false passports, and in every sense they were in deep water. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, there was more. The worst was that the clan was even more secretive internally and that few of the kids knew where they were from any longer, who their real parents were, or what the adults did when they themselves were out on the streets raking in money for Zola’s empire. Marco knew the clan’s past was nothing to brag about, but the little good there had been had gone to the wall with the advent of Zola’s new style immediately before they left Italy. The only thing remaining from former times was the sum of their malicious crimes. Nothing had improved in any way. There were still only a couple among them who could read and write, though many would soon be grown up. But when they were out on the make they were full-blood professionals, albeit of the kind who saw no reason to boast of their peculiar areas of expertise: begging, pickpocketing, burglary, colliding with old ladies so they dropped their handbags, from fast-moving bikes drive-by grabs of anything hanging from a shoulder or hand that seemed like it might be worth something. They were proficient to their fingertips, and Marco in particular demonstrated talent in every reprehensible domain. He could beg, eyes wide and imploring, with a smile that awoke compassion. He could wriggle through the smallest of windows in private homes without a sound, and out on the street among the busy throngs he was truly in his element. Nimble and adroit, he would relieve his victim of watch or wallet. Never a wrong movement or sound, often gesticulating excitedly to distract attention, always eliciting sympathy.