Malavita (9 page)

“If it was up to me, I'd ring one of those crime-team guys right now, I'd do it for free, just to see a scumbag like you with a bullet in your head, which is what you deserve. But the trouble is, you dying would give organized crime twenty years of impunity, with all that crap about
omertà
and sealed lips. On the other hand, if you get out of it, I'll get a list of rats long enough to keep me going for the rest of my life and it'll pay for my retirement. It's what Washington wants. Your survival is worth a lot to us, and you're much more useful to me living than dead.”

“If that's the only solution, then I want to go to Italy.”

“Out of the question.”

“It would give some sense to us being in exile, otherwise there's none. Let me get to know the land of my fathers, I've never been there. I promised Livia the day we got married that we'd go there some day. Her grandparents were from Caserta, mine from Ginostra. They say it's the most beautiful place in the world.”

“Sicily? Great idea! You might just as well walk around Little Italy with a placard saying HAVING FUN IN JAIL, DON MIMINO?”

“Let me see Italy before I die.”

“If I land you in Sicily, you'll be made into
spezzatini
in less than ten minutes. Think of your family.”

“. . .”

“Talk to Maggie, we've still got a little time.”

“I know what she'll say. It'll be Paris, Paris, Paris – all women dream about it.”

“To be quite honest, I've spoken to my bosses, and Paris is one possibility. Also Oslo, Brussels, Cadiz, with a slight preference for Brussels – don't ask.”

A few weeks later the Blakes were installed in a quiet building in the second
arrondissement
in Paris. Once past the first few months of adaptation – new life, new country, new language – they got into an everyday routine which, without really satisfying them, helped them get over the trauma of the move. That was before Fred began single-handedly undermining the protection programme.

*

Both arms in plaster, suspended by straps to the bedhead, Didier Fourcade, the most sought-after plumber in Cholong, watched his wife sleeping, not daring to wake her. The pain had subsided thanks to powerful analgesics.

He relived that morning in his mind – how, suffering the pains of hell, he had pushed open the double doors of the Morseuil clinic with his shoulder. He had presented himself at the admissions desk, with his arms in the air, like a flightless bird, torn between pain, shame and terror.

“I've broken my arms.”

“Both of them?”

“It hurts, for God's sake!”

An hour later, in plaster up to the elbows, he had had to face questions from an intern who walked around him without taking his eyes off the X-rays of his arms.

“Fell down the stairs? . . .”

“I fell two floors on a building site.”

“It's odd, you can see points of impact, as though you had been hit . . . Like hammer blows on the wrists and the arms. Look, there.”

Didier Fourcade turned away to avoid another wave of nausea. He was still haunted by the sound of his own screams as that psychopath had hammered at his wrists. He was taken home in an ambulance, the straps were fixed up and he was put to bed, all under the amazed stare of his wife, Martine.

They had got married twenty years earlier, surprised at wanting to commit to each other only three months after meeting, but unable to prevent themselves. However, as though to counterbalance the euphoria of the first years, the boredom of daily life had caught up with them sooner than with most couples. Both had begun to daydream, imagining a third party entering the equation, imagining a secret life, and in the end living one for real. As long as their relationship was not poisoned by bitterness and reproaches, they had remained together, nostalgic for their lost happiness, and always ready to believe that some small incident might bring it all back. Once their physical passion had died down, they had become prudish with one another: she would lock the bathroom door, turn her back to him when doing up her bra and draw away when she touched his skin by mistake. And for the last few years both had begun to wonder whether any couple could survive this physical distance.

Now he found himself watching her sleeping, just as he had done in those early days and nights, and the sight made him thank God for having sent him Martine. She was resting at last, emotionally exhausted by this accident which had forced her to perform some unusual new gestures: she had had to spoon-feed Didier, wipe his mouth, hold a glass to his lips. She, who had never smoked, had to light a cigarette, put it between his lips, and take it out to tap off the ash. How could he have had such a terrible fall? Supposing he had fallen head first? She had often dreamed of freedom, but now she had been offered a glimpse of life without him and the prospect had filled her with horror.

Didier had bravely faced all that day's ordeals, until now, at 2:17 a.m., when a horrible itch started up, down by his perineum. About ten years earlier he had picked up a skin complaint from God knows where. The doctors had assured him that the tests were negative, that it was benign, that there was nothing much you could do about it, that it would go the same way it had come, but still, at least once a day and according to ambient heat and sweatiness, he was seized by an irresistible urge to scratch between his thighs. It was an awkward place to have to scratch during the day, and he often disappeared into toilets, or went back to his car for no obvious reason, returning almost at once. The only way to achieve some form of relief was to wash the affected spot with dermatological soap, dry it thoroughly and, in times of great heat, sprinkle it with talcum powder to soak up the sweat and alleviate the friction. He, a plumber, had insisted on installing a bidet in their bathroom, to the great surprise of his wife, who couldn't see the point of it, and indeed he was the only one who used it (it was a masterpiece of a bidet, ultramodern – he had put his all into it). In the morning, when he got up, the jet of water soothed the patches which he had scratched during the night, sometimes drawing blood. On summer evenings, he would sometimes take a hip bath as a late reward for a sweaty day spent resisting the temptation to put his hands between his legs in public.

By 2:23, the itch had become intolerable. He had felt it coming on since the early evening, but he had held out, like a soldier biting his belt to make pain disappear. His battle with himself had taken the form of cold sweats, a strange shuddering of the shoulders – his whole body was begging for release so forcefully that eventually all qualms were swept aside. He woke his wife, calling her name, begging her to scratch his “perineum” – a word he had learned at the dermatologist's, along with “scrotum.” Such precision made her hesitate; Didier always called a cat a cat, and a tomcat a tomcat, even with people he hardly knew. This word “perineum” was hiding something, it was a roundabout way of saying “scratch my balls,” but still, she was in no doubt about the urgency of the situation. Guided by her husband, she slipped her hand into his underpants, then under his testicles, a gesture she hadn't made for a long time. He yelled when she found the crucial spot:

“Harder!”

The happiness he felt at that precise moment was so intense that it was soon followed by an erection.

*

To distract themselves from the insomnia that they were both suffering from, Fred and Maggie watched a film late into the night. She was feeling guilty at lying about the
Secours Populaire
, at having secrets from this monster of a husband whom she still loved despite everything. He, for his part, felt unable to give an honest answer to the question she had asked when she came home: “How did it go with the plumber?”

What he had done to Didier Fourcade could well imperil the fragile equilibrium that she and Quintiliani were trying to maintain. Fred did not even dare to imagine what would happen if the Feds got wind of the story. However, he didn't have much to fear on that front – the fear he had seen in Fourcade's eyes guaranteed total silence about what had happened in the cellar. Fred knew how to arouse that sort of terror and how to fine-tune it as one might twiddle the knobs on a radio to find the perfect frequency.

At 3:06, Maggie had finally dropped off on her husband's shoulder. When the film ended, he carefully put her head back on the pillow without waking her, and went down to the veranda. For the first time in his life he was creating rather than destroying, and even if the result turned out to be laughable in the eyes of the world, he felt that he had at last begun to exist.

In a future chapter I will show myself to be the worst scumbag who ever lived on this earth. I will spare myself nothing, I will tell as much as I can, without trying to salve my conscience or try and get forgiven. You will be given a clear picture of what a bastard I was. However, in this chapter I'd rather tell you just the opposite. If you take the trouble to look, you'll find I'm a decent man.

I don't like making people suffer unnecessarily – all my sadistic impulses can easily be satisfied by necessary suffering.

I have never despised those who feared me.

I have never wished for someone's death (the problem was always solved before that).

I always face up to the truth.

I would rather be the person hitting than the one taking pleasure in watching me get hit.

As long as you don't contradict me, you can expect nothing but good things from me.

I have avenged wrongs done to others, even if I always demand a quid pro quo.

When I controlled my territory, there was never a single aggression or mugging incident in the street – people were able to live and sleep in peace.

If I have lived “in contempt of the law,” only those that the law itself holds in contempt will not judge me.

When I was the boss, I never lied to anyone. That's the privilege of the powerful.

I respect enemies who play according to the same rules as me.

I have never tried to find a scapegoat: I am responsible for EVERYTHING.

Fred removed the paper from the carriage, refrained from rereading it, saving that moment for later, and went back up to Maggie, where he went to sleep with all the satisfaction of a job well done.

The writer Frederick Blake had recently begun going to bed at that time of the night when insomniacs wake up, children have their nightmares and lovers separate. After long hours of work, only the prospect of reading his work through when he woke up would send him to bed. In the past his nocturnal activities varied according to the times and the seasons; sometimes he would be busy calling in debts, or loosening tongues or dealing with those individuals for whom the bell was tolling. All that effort couldn't have been conceivable without the prospect of leisure. Here the choice was between ferocious card games, women who were up for anything and, most frequently, terrifying drinking sessions from which you emerged walking stiffly, your back ramrod straight, before going home. Since turning government witness Fred had been sleeping like a hunted animal, a sleep filled with painful dreams that left him in a zombie-like state for the whole of the following day. Now his encounter with the Brother 900 had revived a forgotten taste for nocturnal activity. The excitement he felt when faced with a blank page brought back some of those past thrills, and revived that particular intensity. At such moments, he couldn't have cared less whether the words he was writing would ever be read, or if the sentences would even survive him.

Belle and Warren, on their way to school, tried to picture the scene.

“He's been shut up on that fucking veranda for three months now, he said. His whole vocabulary must get used up several times a day.”

“Are you saying our father's illiterate . . .”

“Our father's an average American, and you've forgotten what that means. It means someone who speaks to be understood, not to make sentences. Someone who doesn't go in for formalities. Someone who is, who has, who says and who does, and doesn't need any other verbs. He doesn't dine out or have lunch – he just eats. The past for him is whatever happened before the present, and the future is what comes after – why complicate things? Have you ever tried to list the range of things your father is able to express just by using the word ‘fuck'?”

“No obscenities please.”

“It means much more than any obscenity. ‘Fuck,' coming from him, can mean ‘God, how did I get into this mess,' or ‘That guy is going to have to pay for this one day,' or even just ‘I love this film.' Why should someone like that ever feel the need to write?”

“Well, I like the fact that Dad's busy, it does him good, and it means he leaves us alone.”

“Well, I find it painful to contemplate. Try and imagine him, at night, on that veranda, with his fat fingers battling with that crappy pre-war typewriter. And when I say ‘his fat fingers,' it's probably just one single forefinger doing all the work, click, click, click, with a good ten seconds between each click.”

He was wrong about this. Fred used both his forefingers. The left one did everything up to t, g and b, the right one from y, h and n – a fair distribution, except when it came to annoying words like “regrets,” which he typed entirely with the left finger. Slight calluses were beginning to form at the ends of the fingers. He was settling into the job.

As his children walked to school, Fred, in his deepest sleep, dreamed that he was driving his garden tractor in the garden of the Newark house. Oddly, he was mowing the lawn just while his daughter was having her first communion; she was waiting for her father to come and cut the cake, a giant cube covered with red roses, with a drawing of a chalice and two candles with golden flames and the words
God Bless Belle
written in red icing. In front of the red-brick
palazzo
, dozens of smartly dressed figures had poured out of haphazardly parked Cadillacs, a well-fed lot, the wives with little veils over their faces, the men with carnations in their buttonholes; all of them were now becoming impatient, waiting for Giovanni to deign to get off that fucking tractor and come and cut his daughter's cake – was this really the right moment to mow the lawn? Belle and Livia were becoming more and more embarrassed, and making excuses to the company, but Giovanni hadn't noticed anything and continued to parade up and down on his machine, entertaining himself by spraying newly mown grass on the ladies' dresses. He was laughing, not noticing the murmuring in the ranks, and that this lack of respect was beginning to worry them. He hadn't even bothered to dress for the occasion, and was wearing sneakers, brown nylon trousers and a white anorak with a hardware store's insignia on the back. The guests were gathering together, beginning to react, and threatening figures began to approach the tractor. A telephone rang somewhere, very close by. But where?

Fred groaned as he woke from this nightmare, waving his arms around nervously. The telephone didn't stop ringing. He groped for the receiver on his bedside table.

“Frederick?”

“? . . .”

“Whalberg. Hope I didn't wake you up, it must be about eleven in the morning where you are.”

“It's fine, it's fine,” Fred grunted, not sure if this was a continuation of the dream.

“I'm in Washington, this call is safe. Quintiliani isn't listening.”

“Elijah? Is that really you?”

“Yes, Frederick.”

“Congratulations on your election. I followed it from here. It's always been a dream for you, the Senate, you used to talk about it back in the Butchers' Union days.”

“That's all so long ago,” the other replied, embarrassed at being reminded of those times.

“I hear you're a special adviser to the President.”

“Yeah well, I've been invited to the White House from time to time, but just for social gatherings. Tell me about you, Frederick. France, eh?”

“There are some good things about it, but I don't feel at home. ‘There's no place like home,' like it says in
The
Wizard of Oz
.”

“What do you do all day?”

“Not much.”

“I hear you're . . . writing.”

“? . . .”

“. . .”

“It's a way of passing the time.”

“Memoirs were mentioned.”

“That's a big word.”

“Frederick, I think it's great. I'm sure you'll do it very well. How far have you got?”

“A few pages, odd bits and pieces.”

“And are you telling . . . the whole story?”

“How could I tell it all? If I want to be believed, I'd better steer clear of the truth, otherwise they'll say I'm just a fantasist.”

“So you want people to read it.”

“Well, I'm not thinking about publication, that would be a bit ambitious. At least, not yet.”

“Frederick . . . this conversation is worrying me. . . .”

“Don't worry, Elijah, the only real names I'm using are the dead ones. And I've changed some of the details about the business with the Pan Am freight and the refrigerated trucks, you can sleep easy on that one.”

“. . .”

“I don't want to lose the only friends I've got left, Elijah. As long as I'm being pampered by the FBI, and as long as they're keeping me safe at the taxpayer's expense, why would I go looking for trouble?”

“I understand.”

“If the vets decide to come over for a millionth commemoration at Omaha Beach, come along with them and we can shoot the breeze.”

“Great idea.”

Fred hung up, feeling rather smug. His reputation as a writer was beginning to reach the Senate, government departments, the White House even. Uncle Sam was going to hear about him.

*

Warren lay stretched out on a bench, one which nobody ever challenged him for, jotting down passing thoughts in a notebook. It was 3rd June, and a wind of freedom was blowing through the school; the younger children hung about the playground, the older ones were at home revising; some sprawled on the grass playing doctors and nurses, others took over the sporting facilities for wild games of football or tennis. But according to time-honoured tradition, the most motivated amongst them devoted all their energies to the end-of-year show.

The town of Cholong-sur-Avre had, since time began, observed the feast of Saint John; in addition to the purely local festivities, a big funfair was always set up on the Place de la Libération over the weekend closest to 21st June. The school administration used the occasion to invite parents along to a big end-of-term show produced by their offspring, and everybody always made a special effort to turn up for the event. The great spectacle began with a choral concert, which was followed by a sketch put on by the members of the theatre workshop, and ended, or had done for the last two or three years, with the showing of a video film made by the sixth-form pupils. Any good idea was welcomed, all talents put to use, and those who wanted to express themselves without having to go on stage helped edit the now famous
Jules Vallès Gazette
, the school magazine. Here you could find the essays which had received the top marks that year, articles written by volunteers, games, puzzles, riddles invented by the children, and two pages of strip cartoons that had been polished up by the art teacher. People who had hitherto felt shy or inhibited found that they could express themselves here, and each year, a few new talents emerged from the ranks. And this was where they were hoping to catch Warren.

“Write something for us in English. Just a few funny lines that everyone can understand, or a simple play on words – whatever you feel like.”

A play on words . . . As if any of these Cholong brats, let alone their English teachers, even with all those diplomas, had the faintest idea about what constituted New Jersey humour! That combination of cynicism and mockery honed by fist fights and punches in the jaw, against a background of urban misery. Nothing like life in Cholong! That kind of American humour was the only thing those outcasts really possessed, their only source of pride and dignity. In Newark a good comeback could save you from a knife in the ribs, or at least soften the pain of the knife. That kind of humour didn't come from reading the classics – it had itself been the inspiration for the classics. A good dose of irony, a dash of euphemism, a splash of nonsense, a little understatement, and the joke was complete, but to make that particular joke you had to have been hungry and afraid, to have trailed in the gutters and taken some knocks. And, like a bullet that misses its target, a badly timed comeback would turn out, more often than not, to be fatal.

Feeling short of inspiration, Warren lay on his bench and searched his memory. His mind wandered back to Newark, to an uncle or aunt's house, a house full of people, which somehow didn't feel entirely welcoming, despite all the smiles.

It's probably a wedding, or some other happy celebration. There are cousins in little suits and little dresses. Warren doesn't mingle with them – he prefers the company of the adults, especially those who are friends of the father he so worships. He's a million miles from suspecting their activities, but already he admires their stature, the way they hold up their heads, their gigantic corpulence. They all hang out together, laughing and mocking each other, like the overgrown schoolboys that they are. Warren already feels that he's one of them. He creeps towards them without showing himself, so as to listen to their conversation, and perhaps overhear some secrets. He lets himself be forgotten, sliding between the furniture. He doesn't go too near the centre, where a strange man is holding court, much older and thinner than the others, with white hair and a little hat on his head. If it wasn't for the little hat, he might be quite frightening. Judging from the way his father is addressing the old man, lowering his voice, Warren realizes that this is someone important. So that's him, the great Don Mimino, who is spoken of in respectful tones by even the biggest bosses. Warren is torn between fear and admiration, and he listens – they're talking about opera. His father, like the others, sometimes listens to opera. Some evenings it even brings a tear to his eyes. It must be the Italian language that does it. Don Mimino is asking what's on at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. They reply:

“You wouldn't like it, Don Mimino, they're showing
Boris Godunov
; it's by a Russian.”

And Don Mimino, sharp as a razor, retorts:

“
Boris Godunov
? If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me.”

And all the men burst out laughing.

There was a sudden brainstorm in the mind of the five-year-old boy. Godunov – good enough. The words had been changed and a new meaning had been invented, and all with the speed of light. Warren had experienced an almost physical sensation before the perfection of this brilliant interlocking of thought and words, along with a sudden beautiful and violent realization of his own intelligence. He had caught and understood the joke and it had been a sort of coming of age for him, this fusion of word and irony burning into his brain, causing an intense feeling of pleasure. There was no need to hide behind the sofa any more; Warren emerged to take his place with the men. His view of the little thin man with the white hair had changed in a single moment: Don Mimino had, with just that one phrase, shut everybody up, and once more proved his enduring sharpness of mind, once again reconfirming his position as boss of bosses. There was no doubt about it, once you had such a weapon you were more or less invincible. For Warren nothing was ever the same again: he could no longer ignore the power words had to conquer and ensnare. He fully intended to learn for himself this art of summing the world up in two or three short sentences, giving it a meaning so as, in the end, to put it all in perspective.

Years later, this perspective had enabled him to overcome the traumatic events surrounding his exile, by sheltering him behind a rampart of irony – this was his way of remaining a true New Yorker.

Now, with his notebook in hand, slumped on his bench, this “good enough” joke seemed a little laborious, but just good enough to fob off on that stupid magazine. The teachers would congratulate him on a tour de force, and he would probably claim authorship. After all, who would dare to challenge that?