Malavita Read online

*

  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?

  Once he had landed on his native soil, he would have to be as discreet as possible, travel short distances only, speak English and French alternately, behave like a young tourist about to meet his parents, learn the names of the towns and areas he travelled through, so as to be able to describe his trip if ever he was questioned. He tucked several maps and tourist information gathered from the Internet into his jacket, to provide himself with a story to tell the authorities if necessary. Then he packed his toiletries into a plastic bag: if he didn’t want to be taken for a vagabond, cleanliness must be a priority. He would wash and sleep as often as possible, so as to remain fresh and healthy. As for money, he had plenty of that, thanks to all the services he had performed for his school friends; everything had to be paid for, either with other services, or more often in ready money. The money would be useful for greasing palms, buying clothes, sleeping in hotels when necessary, eating decently, buying drinks for people who might be useful and handing out tips. He turned off his computer, gave it a tap, as though saying goodbye to an old friend, and left the room. The first stage of the journey was tricky. He needed to go quietly into the garden, around the veranda, and, when he had reached the garden shed, slide between two sheets of metal, pull up a bit of wire netting and slide underneath it into the neighbour’s garden, climb over his fence and head for the station. From then on, he would be an outlaw. And he would soon find out if he really had the makings of one.

  He came face to face with his sister in the corridor. Like him, she was cautiously tiptoeing downstairs. Belle’s plan was just as acrobatic as Warren’s: she would get into the garden by the laundry-room window
, climb onto the wood pile against the party wall, over into the neighbour’s house and go straight out from there. She was much too concerned with her own problems to notice Warren’s conspiratorial manner, and he likewise noticed nothing of his sister’s solemn demeanour.

  “Where are you going?” he said first.

  “Nowhere, what about you?”

  Warren wasn’t going to see Belle again for many years. One day he would come back to fetch her, and then he would offer her Hollywood on a plate, and the world at her feet. He clenched his jaw, holding back his tears. Belle took him in her arms, so as to leave him with a last image of his loving sister. He kissed her with the sort of affection he had never yet felt for anyone.

  “I really love you, Belle.”

  “I want you to know that I’ll always be proud of you, wherever you are – never forget that.”

  And they kissed each other again.

  On the ground floor, Fred, cloistered in his veranda, was a thousand miles from imagining this outbreak of sibling affection. He was stuck, because of some memory lapse, in the middle of a chapter describing the initiation ceremonies of the Onorevole Società. Before becoming a made man, recognized and accepted by the brotherhood, the petitioner would be summoned to a ceremony presided over by the ancients, the form of which had not changed for centuries. His forefinger would be pricked with a needle, drawing a drop of blood, and a holy picture would be placed in his hands and set on fire. He would then have to repeat: May my flesh burn like this saint if I fail to keep my oath . . . Fred couldn’t remember the rest, and yet how many times had he heard the oath, after having spoken it himself thirty years previously? How did it go . . . May my flesh burn . . . what, in God’s name? Something came next . . . What could explain this sudden lapse, just at the wrong moment, just when his inspiration was in mid-flight? Nothing would come, only the image of himself burning up like the holy image.

  He yelled his wife’s name several times, and then started to look for her in the house. When he didn’t see her on the sofa, which she had hardly left for several days, he had a strange premonition and began to search each room, one by one, including those upstairs. There he found his children, and didn’t even notice the fact that they were entwined with one another, with tears in their eyes.

  “Anyone seen your mother?”

  They shook their heads and watched him go down to the laundry room, where he circled the sleeping dog before coming back up to the living room.

  “MAGGIE!!!”

  Had she disobeyed Quintiliani’s orders? That was unthinkable. She would rather have died than attract more sanctions. So what?

  There must be some explanation, perhaps the worst of all.

  *

  Less than a mile and a half outside Cholong, the minibus turned into the Beaufort forest and parked alongside the Avre. The men got out and stretched their numb legs, as silent and concentrated as ever. The chauffeur gave a noisy sigh of exhaustion, and stood by the river to pee. The guide, who was acting as interpreter, brought out large plastic bags full of new clothes, which he placed on the ground for the team to choose from. Matt had given very strict orders about the clothes they were to wear; they were to look like all those Americans who had been coming to the region since 1945. This was easy for some, but looking like that type of American was a bit more complicated for those who had always modelled their appearance on gangsters in films.

  The younger ones were quite capable of watching a film ten times over in order to spot a particular make of jacket or shoe. And if some, once they had been made, gave up the costume, for others it was like a second skin. Without questioning this, the men had no idea how to interpret the order to “look like those Americans.” What exactly did that mean? Try and look like an idiot? Look as ordinary as possible? Attract attention? Not attract attention? Should they dress like adolescents, Texan rednecks, or homeless New Yorkers? Which particular sort of bad taste was required? There were so many to choose from.

  And so designer jackets, tailor-made trousers and silk shirts were shed to make way for T-shirts, Bermuda shorts, short-sleeved shirts with soft collars; they put on shapeless, synthetic, patterned garments and caps. What did it matter, soon they would be consoling themselves with two million dollars to spend on Madison and Fifth. Matt set the example by going first: he pulled on pale pleated trousers, a red T-shirt and a beige jacket. Greg Sanfelice chose washed-out jeans and a University of Colorado T-shirt. Guy Barber squeezed his crotch into some tight-fitting black jeans, and added a navy-blue cotton shirt practically open to the waist. The rest of the gang crowded around the bags. Julio Guzman provided a running commentary for each of his teammates.

  “Jerry, it’s crazy – you look just like an American!”

  “You – you crazy Puerto Rican – you know what you look like? A fucking American!”

  The men gradually relaxed and joined in the fun: “Stupid American bastard . . .” “Shut up, Yank.” “You Americans, you’re such idiots . . .”

  Matt then brought out the four cases containing the arms. The men went quiet again, feeling a bit strange in their new clothes, and shared the handguns out between them. They had the choice between a semi-automatic Magnum Research .44 pistol and a Smith & Wesson Ultra-Lite .38 Special revolver. The first was very dependable if you were shooting at a moving target from a distance, and the other was ideal for an execution at close quarters – it just depended on individual methods of operation, particular habits and skills. Not all of them had been recruited for their talents as killers. Some were genuinely thrilled by an untouched weapon, its smooth uncorrupted surface, its smell as yet unsullied by cordite, the shiny blue steel; while others felt sad at the thought of their old familiar gun, their life’s companion, which had kept them alive, which now had had to be left behind. It was now time to perform a few ritual gestures, loading the barrels, engaging the magazine, aiming, pulling the gun in and out of the belt or the holster, sticking it in the back of the trousers, on the stomach, under the armpit and so on. Then Matt took them down to the edge of the river for a final warm-up session of shooting practice, loosening up and running in their weapons. Nicholas Bongusto started shooting, aiming at imaginary targets on the opposite bank, before spotting a fisherman’s cabin a few yards upstream, with a jetty on stilts sticking out into the water. He took aim at this structure. Soon all ten men were standing in a row, emptying their guns in the direction of the little shack. After a good five minutes of non-stop firing, the tin roof had slid down into the water and the wooden walls, now peppered with bullets, were beginning to collapse. The game now was to aim for the stilts holding up the jetty, so that the whole structure would collapse into the river – which soon happened. The guns were in perfect working condition by now, and each gang member had taken great pleasure in breaking in his weapon.

  Matt distributed ready cash and mobile phones, and then had a word with the interpreter, who was also the driver and guide, who suggested that they follow the banks of the Avre on foot until they reached the town. After some last-minute words to his troops, Matt led the march on Cholong.

  As they got nearer to the town, strange and yet somehow familiar sounds began to reach them: a well-known racket, loud shouts and fairground music, the universal sound of a funfair. The death squad began to imagine the most absurd hypotheses.

  “A welcoming committee?” Julio suggested to try and relax the atmosphere.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” said Nick. “I’ve seen black-and-white films of that. In Normandy, as soon as they see a group of Americans approaching, they bring out the marching bands, and the girls and the firecrackers too, it’s a sort of tradition.”

  Matt signalled to them to stop, when they were about to cross the bridge which marked the entrance to Cholong.

  “What’s all this crap?” he asked the guide.

  The guide went up to a poster stuck to a tree, which provided the answer. H
e explained as well as he could that it was the festival of Saint Jean.

  “Well, perhaps we’re in luck,” said Matt.

  *

  “I’ll do whatever you want, but get me away from this monster, Quint. What happened on Thursday will happen again and again, he’ll find other Carteix factories, whether you watch him or not. He’ll set the whole town on fire, he’ll take over the businesses for his rackets, he’ll start some secret gambling den, he’ll terrorize the local council with a baseball bat. Giovanni was born with destruction in his soul, and when he finally dies his last thought will be a curse, or if he regrets anything it’ll only be not having wreaked enough destruction.”

  Fred, sitting under the kitchen window outside the Feds’ house, was sobbing bitterly. His intuition had been right: Maggie had gone over to the enemy. He was making a superhuman effort to turn the geyser of rage that he felt rising within him against himself and not them. His life had been thrown to the dogs, and by his lifetime companion. He stopped himself from banging his head against the stone, in case it made the wall shake and alerted them to his presence. Quint had become the strong man of the Manzoni family, perhaps even its saviour.

  “Belle and Warren are doomed as long as they live alongside that son of a bitch,” she continued. “It’s him Don Mimino wants, not us.”

  Fred bit his hand, and only unclenched his jaw when his incisors had broken the flesh, but even then the pain was not enough to numb the pain Maggie was inflicting on him. Quintiliani was going to take such sadistic pleasure in separating him from his loved ones; Fred would be stripped of all dignity and pride, until he was prepared for any abasement and humiliation, just for the sake of hearing their voices on the telephone. The king of agents, himself so long separated from his own children, hadn’t expected such a bonus; Maggie had just supplied him with the sweetest revenge of all. Fred, desperate to relieve this searing pain, was again tempted to knock himself out by banging his head on the ground. Who on earth could put up with such agony? Fred was probably the only person on earth who didn’t know the answer to that question. It was the victims.