Malavita (20 page)

Without giving him time to react, she left the living room and went up to bed. Shaken by her words, he poured himself another glass and swallowed it in one gulp. He had been prepared for anything but this, the worst threat of all – that she should go home without him. It was the very first time that Maggie had considered the idea, which was after all perfectly feasible. The local radio station was reporting a fire, probably arson, at the Carteix factory. He turned off the sound and glanced outside: the street was in an uproar, the neighbours outside in their dressing gowns, sirens in the distance. Exhausted by the long day, Fred went back onto the veranda to see if a few words might spring to his fingertips. Henceforth these memoirs would be the only link between Fred Blake and Giovanni Manzoni.

His concentration was broken by a figure coming up from the garden. Quintiliani had come round the back so as not to ring the bell. Fred prepared for the third sermon of the evening, after Ben's and Maggie's.

“One might have imagined, Manzoni, that the trial, the disgrace, the exile might have induced you to stop and think. Oh, I don't mean the discovery of a conscience, or any kind of true repentance, I certainly didn't expect that. Do you know why you're still capable of committing crimes like this evening's? Quite simply, it's because you haven't paid your dues. Twenty or thirty years in a six-yard-square cell might have given you the time to consider this question: was it all worth it?”

“You still believe in that crap? Paying one's debt to society?”

“With the exception of three or four well-meaning politicians, a few sociologists and the odd big-hearted social worker, nobody gives a fuck whether prison makes any difference to a creep like you, Manzoni. The whole world needs to know that you're behind bars, because if scum like you get away with it, why should anyone bust a gut obeying laws designed to suppress all liberty and pleasure?”

“Me, in prison? I'd have had followers, lots of small guys who regarded me as a legend – I'd have given them a master class. I'd have done much more damage inside than out.”

“Well, from now on you're grounded. None of you can leave the house until further notice.”

“The kids too?”

“Sort it out with them. After your antics last night, our arrangement may not work any more. You've been warned.”

“But . . . Hey, Quint!”

The FBI agent left, relieved, but with the bulk of his work still before him: he now had to divert all lines of enquiry about the sabotage of the Carteix factory. To do that, he had to have a free hand.

Fred decided to go up to bed, but he found the bedroom door locked. He didn't insist, and instead went down to Malavita's lair – there would be no recriminations from her, at any rate. The dog woke up, surprised by this late visit, and by the noise in the street that was reaching her through the window.

Fred turned on the tap to fill her bowl with fresh water. Fresh, crystal-clear water flowed out; he couldn't resist tasting it.

He felt sure that at that same moment, throughout Cholong, dozens of people were doing exactly the same thing, and marvelling at the clearness of the water. Some of them were beginning to believe in miracles.

At the precise moment Benedetto D. Manzoni's plane was taking off from Heathrow to fly to America, another, travelling in the opposite direction, was coming in to land at Roissy. Amongst the mostly American passengers were ten men from the state of New York, who hadn't checked in any luggage. They all knew each other, but neither spoke nor nodded to one another. Six were of Italian origin, two Irish, and two were Puerto Ricans born in Miami. None had ever set foot in Europe. At first sight, one might have taken them for a group of lawyers come to deal with some international legal business, perhaps on behalf of some powerful multinational's global interests. In fact they were soldiers – the kind of soldiers who prefer first-class cabins to strike helicopters, and Armani suits to jungle fatigues. This was a death squad, selected in the same way as mercenaries – which is what they were.

*

Some of the Blakes regarded the curfew as a blessing, while for others it was the most unfair of punishments. Fred had already decided not to go out in order to avoid the festivities and carry on with his masterpiece. It was a point of honour to him never to be affected by sanctions. In fact the threat of punishment rarely had the desired effect on gangsters: far from scaring them, it gave them an opportunity to defy the authorities and make them look ridiculous. They would insult a judge in court, spit in a federal agent's face during an interrogation, pour scorn on prison guards; they would never miss an opportunity to be provocative, and they would never bow down their heads. So Quint had consigned Fred to quarters? What a blessing. He would be able to devote himself entirely to chapter six, which began:

In films, people like to see violence put to the service of the just, but it's because they like violence, not because they like justice. Why do people like stories of revenge rather than forgiveness? Because men love the idea of punishment. To see the righteous hitting back, and hitting hard – that's something people never tire of and don't feel guilty about. It's the only sort of violence that's ever scared me.

On the floor above, Belle had shut herself up, to get out of sight of her family. She had been prevented from taking a role in the end-of-term show, now she wasn't allowed to go out into the town and have fun with people of her age. All she could do now was disappear into her room to try to make some sense of all this sacrifice. If she wasn't allowed to appear, she would disappear, and this time for good. She had just taken an irrevocable decision.

As for Warren, he was furious at having to pay over and over again for his father's actions. The approach of the festivities had awoken the child in him, and the punishment made him regret once more that he wasn't yet an adult. He was being punished as if he was an adult, why shouldn't he have adult status? He shut himself in his room and spent long hours in front of his screen, picking up information from the Internet that would come in useful for the future he was preparing for himself. What was his plan? It was to turn back the clock, and remake history; he would change everything, and start again from scratch.

Of the four, Maggie was the most inconvenienced by the curfew. She was committed a hundred times over to helping put up and run stands at the fair, and ensure its smooth running; she would have enjoyed nothing more than making her contribution to such a popular event. She sat slumped on the sofa in front of the television, not watching it, totally discouraged and suffering from doubt. Well might she devote herself body and soul to others, she would always be dragged down in the end by Fred, and forced back into the role of Mafia wife, and what's more a discredited Mafia wife, shunned by all. For every step she made, Fred pulled her ten steps back, and as long as she remained with that creep, despite anything she might still feel for him, she would never escape from this downward spiral. She would have to talk to the one person who, after all, looked after her better than Fred ever could.

*

The town of Cholong-sur-Avre was wearing its party colours. At ten, the parents had turned up at the school hall for the concert, which had gone off without the slightest hitch – a total success and a happy moment for old and young alike. At two, the fairground people opened the fair, starting up their rides for the young people, the first of whom started to pour into the Place de la Libération. The shortest night of the year would go by in a flash, the young wouldn't go to bed at all, and the less young would go to bed to the sound of fairground music. Summer had started with a bang.

Thirty-five miles away, at the Madeleine de Nonancourt roundabout, a grey Volkswagen minibus stopped to check the route. The driver, irritated by having been made to take a wrong turning outside Evreux, was encouraging his pilot to concentrate. The ten men in the back were bored stiff, staring out at a landscape that was a great deal less exotic than they had expected. The grass was green just like anywhere else, the trees were less shady than the planes in New York, and the sky seemed grey and dirty compared to the one in Miami. They had all heard of Normandy from war films, without, however, ever having felt the slightest curiosity about the place and its history. The fact was, they hadn't been curious about anything since landing at Roissy, not the climate, not the cuisine; they didn't even care about the discomfort and the travel – they only had one thought, which was how they would spend the two million dollars they would each receive when the mission was accomplished.

Six of them already imagined themselves retiring from business; at thirty or forty, they were most likely living through their very last working day. They would buy a farm, a villa with a pool, a room all the year round in Las Vegas, anything would be possible. The four others certainly didn't scorn the reward, but they were driven by another motive. They had lost brothers or fathers thanks to Manzoni's testimony, and killing him had become an obsession for them. The most motivated of all was called Matt Gallone, Don Mimino's grandson and direct heir. For the six years since the trial, Matt had concentrated exclusively on avenging his grandfather. Manzoni had dispossessed him of his kingdom, of his future title of Godfather and status as demi-god. Every moment of Matt's life, every gesture was aimed at the death of Manzoni. Manzoni's death lurked behind laughter with friends, behind kisses on his children's foreheads. It was Matt's
Via Dolorosa
and for him it would be the path to freedom and rebirth.

“Follow signs to Rouen,” said the pilot, his nose buried in the map.

The whole operation had been planned in New York by Matt and the
capi
of the five families, who, on this occasion, were operating as a single family. Failing any direct contacts in France, the death squad had had to organize itself via Sicily. Orders had been sent to Catania, where a local Cosa Nostra contact had arranged the logistics through one of their companies, based in Paris. The arrangements included meeting the ten men at Roissy, arranging transport and providing arms: fifteen automatic pistols and ten revolvers, six assault rifles, twenty hand grenades and a rocket-launcher. They had also been allocated a driver and an interpreter, a fellow who had previously taken part in a commando operation. Then it would be over to Matt and his men. In order to maintain team spirit during the operation and to avoid unhealthy competition, the famous twenty-million-dollar reward would be divided equally; the one who actually killed Gianni Manzoni would only receive an honorary bonus. In a few hours, he would be a millionaire and a living legend. The world would admire his actions, because the world despises a traitor. For what could be worse than to sell your own brother? The last circle of hell was reserved for such people. Today, 21st June, just one of these ten would be the chosen one and would gain an everlasting place in the criminals' roll of honour. He would be written about in books long after his death.

*

Beauty had been condemned to solitude. Belle could imagine no worse fate than her own. How can you prevent a star from shining? How can you deprive the world of this gift from God? This knowledge became harder and harder to bear as she approached womanhood. She decided finally that the only thing comparable in power to her beauty was the wickedness of those who prevented her from making use of it. It was as though God himself had created such perfection with the sole purpose of depriving people of it. It was just like God to be so inhuman: to demand that you should sacrifice what you held most dear; to create temptation and sin simultaneously; to forgive the sinners and punish the good. Belle felt somehow a victim of His mysterious plan without understanding what on earth He could possibly be up to.

She sat on her bedroom floor, with a handkerchief to her eyes, thinking of all the arse-lickers she had watched lining up in the Newark house to ask a favour of her father, or to further the interests of a relation, or settle a score. The irony was that she, Belle Manzoni, his own daughter, would never have needed the slightest help. If she had just been left free to follow her own path, she would have easily reached the top on her own. She cried and cried, but all the tears in her body were not enough to console her for this virginal destiny. She might as well resign herself to a life of chastity buried alive. For the very first time she cursed her mother and father for having brought her into the world, the daughter of a criminal.

But then she rebelled. Her face puffed up by tears, she told herself that it was no use agreeing to live in a manner she could never carry out. The most elegant and ultimately reasonable course of action would be to end it all as soon as possible. She ran over to the window overlooking the garden and, looking out, realized that by throwing herself out she would just end up alive but crippled. She must end it, yes, but she must do it properly, in a grand gesture, with as many witnesses to her sacrifice as possible; at last she would have a public – a public that would never forget the sight of her silhouette flying through the air to a certain death.

On reflection, she realized that she had chosen the perfect day to die, the first day of summer; the whole town at her feet in the Place de la Libération, what a great revenge it would be. She would appear at the top of the church tower and cast herself into the void. The angel's leap. They would find her broken body in front of the church door, a few drops of blood dropping from her lips onto her dress – it would be a sublime vision. But why the church, anyway? Why mix God up in this? What had He done to deserve such a sacrifice? To die in His house was to accord Him too much honour. In any case, God didn't exist, you just had to study the evidence. Or else He too was a victim of the Peter Principle and had met the limits of His power when faced with Belle's destiny. She closed her eyes to visualize the Place de la Libération and its buildings, but none seemed high enough. Unless . . . Why not? The big wheel!

Of course, the big wheel! That would be her grand finale. And what a great symbol, the big wheel, turning for evermore without her, much more powerful than the church. Relieved, she opened her cupboard and got out her one-shouldered Goddess Diana dress, her silk scarf and her white sandals. She would be fixed in people's memories as a kind of pagan Madonna, too beautiful for such a cruel and ugly world. Her photo would be in the papers, and millions of people would imagine her death, adding details, creating a Belle mythology, a whole legend. Like the romantic heroines of old, she would inspire the poets, who would write songs about her that would be sung by other young women for generations to come. Who knows, perhaps one day a film would be made about the life of Belle Blake, a great Hollywood film that would draw tears on five continents. She put a little foundation on her cheeks, and a touch of eyeliner, and imagined all the merchandising that would go with the film: the posters, the dolls in her effigy, the effigy of an icon of the future.

She looked for one last time at her face in the mirror. Her only regret in killing herself was that she would not be able to watch her body defying the laws of ageing over the years. At thirty her beauty would have gained in elegance, at forty in nobility and at fifty there would be glowing maturity – Belle would conquer the ravages of time. What a pity not to have had the chance to demonstrate this to the world. She scribbled a note, which she left on a corner of the desk, which read:
Carry on without me.

In the next-door room, Warren too was preparing his great escape. Quintiliani's curfew had simply accelerated his original plan. In the earlier scenario, he would have risen on an August morning, had breakfast in the usual way, and then would have invented some pretext for leaving early and returning late, say a bicycle ride with his friends. Instead of which he would have gone to the Cholong station and caught the 10:10 express to Paris. Two months ahead of time, he was going to leave this FBI-guarded prison at once, and his disappearance would last for several years, until he came back to his family, or brought them back to him in his new role as Godfather.

He picked up the notes he had made on the different stages of his planned journey. In a few minutes he would set off to the station and catch the 14:51 train to Paris Montparnasse. From there he would proceed to the Gare de Lyon, where he would wait for the overnight Naples Express, which would easily get him over the frontier at Domodossola. In Naples he would go straight to the San Gregorio quarter, where he would mention the name of Ciro Lucchesi, boss of a branch of the Camorra working in New York. Without him needing to ask, he would be taken straight to meet Gennaro Esposito, the
capo
of the whole region, a man who was never seen, but whose shadow hung over all of Naples. And he would introduce himself as the son of the traitor Giovanni Manzoni.

Gennaro would be amazed and ask why the son of the most famous rat in the world had come into the lion's den . . . Warren would then remind him of the enormous debt Ciro Lucchesi owed his father, who had sabotaged an FBI enquiry that would have sent Ciro down for a hundred years. Now the traitor's son was offering Lucchesi the chance to settle this debt by arranging his transport from Naples to the United States. Lucchesi would be forced to agree to this, and Warren would find himself arriving in New York harbour a few days later, as his great-grandfather had done at the same age, all those years ago. And then everything would begin again. He would find a place, rebuild an empire and cleanse the name of Manzoni. What were sons for, if not to repair the sins of the fathers?