The Night of Rome Page 10

  He heard Chiara’s voice behind him.

  “I’m not sleepy. And I feel like talking.”

  “Here I am.”

  “Who are those people, Sebastiano? That Frodo . . . is a Fascist.”

  “He was one once, and deep inside, maybe he still is. But for the rest of the world, including me, he’s just a very wealthy man.”

  “And you manage his business concerns.”

  “Just like I do for lots of other people.”

  “And are they all like Frodo?”

  “Some are.”

  Chiara ordered a cardamom herbal tea. She stared at him, she scrutinized at him, as if expecting who-knows-what revelation. Chiara had guessed at Alex’s mission: observe, report back. He couldn’t hide from her. Sebastiano understood that something needed to be said. Something approaching the truth. Everything that could be said.

  “Someday I’ll invite you to my company headquarters, Chiara . . . ”

  The offices of Future Consulting s.r.l. on Via Ludovisi were a perfect copy of what had once been the executive headquarters of Laurenti Engineering, s.r.l. He had reproduced the bronze conference table with the rainbow onyx surface, the classic Thonet chairs, the damasked silk embellished with art nouveau motifs. He’d purchased the prints on the walls from a junkman, or antiquarian, whom he’d allowed to profiteer on his sentiments. It all gave the offices a decidedly antiquated, and yet measured, tone. The finest tribute to his late father, the engineer. An old-school conservative, a man of another era. He had created out of nothing a solid, reliable company that planned and supervised civil engineering projects. When the time had come to start giving bribes as a way of getting along, he had refused. It had been explained to him in no uncertain terms that this eccentricity of his was unacceptable: the system couldn’t tolerate exceptions to the rules. Either he could bend with the times, like everyone else, or he’d be swept away. Deaf to flattery and threats, he’d continued along his straight and narrow path. He had refused to transform Laurenti Engineering into a paper mill emitting invoices for nonexistent projects, to take work assignments that entailed kickbacks of ten percent of the total value of the project, kickbacks that were paid to politicians and highly placed mandarins in the Ministry of Infrastructure or the city government. Slowly, they had built a wall of hostility around him. Until they’d finally destroyed him. The Others.

  That’s what his father called them.

  The Others. It had been the others who’d pushed him to financial ruin and death. He’d never again seen a single job, a single contract. Not a project, not a supervision of construction. They’d all shunned him like a leper. He’d fallen into the hands of the loan sharks, setting the noose around his neck that they’d then used to strangle him.

  If it had been entirely up to his own personal taste, Sebastiano would have opted for something more modern in terms of decorations. But Cucchi, Fontana, Boetti, and Paladino enjoyed pride of place in his private residence. The old family villa that had fallen into his hands after the shipwreck of the Three Little Pigs, the loan sharks who had first taken it away from him when he was just a young orphan ravaged by the blows of injustice. The company’s headquarters, now that was a museum. That was a temple.

  Chiara had listened, in something approaching religious silence. But her voice rang out surprisingly ironic when she told him that if the story he’d told her had any moral at all, it was that he, Sebastiano, had now officially become The Others. The people who know the rules of the game. Or, actually, the ones who set those rules.

  “But what does it mean to become The Others, Seba, you still haven’t explained that to me.”

  No, and he couldn’t explain it. He certainly couldn’t tell her that he’d stained his hands with blood. It had been his only option. He’d won. And that’s what mattered. There were no longer Us and The Others. There was only victory and power. And the bitterness that came with all that.

  “It means doing exactly what everyone else does, Chiara. Nothing more and nothing less.”

  “I’m going to get some sleep, Sebastiano. Tomorrow is going to be a long, hard day.”

  At seven thirty the following morning, a young man deposited an envelope for Mister Laurenti at the reception desk of the Hotel Baglioni. When the envelope was delivered to him, Sebastiano hefted it, without bothering to open it. The weight, roughly speaking, corresponded. Frodo had fallen into line. For the moment, anyway. When they met in the lobby—they were on the same flight—taking advantage of a momentary distraction on Chiara’s part, he slipped the envelope into the young woman’s elegant Vuitton travel bag. A simple precautionary measure, he told himself, to lighten his sense of shame. When they landed at Fiumicino, he realized just how advisable his foresight had been. Chiara passed unquestioned through the sliding glass doors, while he was stopped by the customs agents, and his suitcase was searched with great care. He was released a half hour later, with copious apologies, to which he responded with a polite smile and words of praise for the agents’ professional rigor.

  That bastard Frodo. He’d called in a tip. Otherwise, there was no explaining all this determination in the search.

  Chiara was waiting for him outside the bookstore in the arrivals hall. She handed him an envelope with a defiant smile.

  “Were they looking for this?”

  Sebastiano didn’t apologize, and he didn’t fall back on his dazzling smile. Instead he looked at her, serious and sincere.

  “Yesterday the mayor appointed Polimeni extraordinary delegate for the jubilee. Adriano Polimeni. You know him, don’t you?”

  “You sure know a lot of things about me.”

  “You need to go and talk to him, Chiara.”

  Here it was. Here was the critical point of no return. She might turn her back on him and withdraw, with great dignity, intact as a vestal virgin. She might throw a tantrum. Upbraid him for having used her. Right back to that first moment when he’d seduced her with that ridiculous novelty item of the Knights of Malta.

  She could even report him to the authorities, sure, why not, Sebastiano Laurenti, the man who dabbles in strange dealings, the profiteer . . . she could . . . yes, she could . . . but London had stirred something inside her. A feeling that was still tangled, impossible to pin down. It was as if he, in the process of confiding to her certain clearly only-partial truths, were turning to her with a tacit request for help. At the same time, Sebastiano remained a challenge. The world that he represented, a world whose outlines she was only beginning to guess at, was itself a challenge. And if there was one thing Chiara Visone loved, it was challenges.

  And she especially loved winning them.

  “You know something, Sebastiano? I was wondering when you’d broach the topic . . . ”

  “Polimeni?” he asked, stunned.

  “No. ICEP. I was expecting you to ask me to intervene with the government to unfreeze the funds for the metro. Isn’t that why you suddenly acted so interested in me?”

  Sebastiano suddenly turned serious.

  “I like you, Chiara. You’re like a great bird of prey lifting into flight. And it’s a majestic flight, it captures the imagination. I’d never get tired of watching it, admiring it. You’ll have all my support. I won’t stop you. I’ll be your right hand. I’ll be at your side. And soon, I’ll fall in love with you.”

  She paused for a beat. She didn’t especially like the overemphasis, but she certainly found it flattering. A delicate smile appeared on her face. The contrast with the ice that remained in her gaze couldn’t have clashed any more starkly.

  “Please, Sebastiano, all of this rhetoric! But okay. I’ll go see Polimeni. I’ll do it today.”

  They left the airport arm in arm. A hired chauffeur was waiting for them under the large Lancia billboard. Chiara asked to be dropped off a short walk from the Montecitorio Palace, seat of the Italian parliament.

 
FABIO DESIDERI’S VILLA. AFTERNOON OF MARCH 18TH.

  Bogdan Adir accompanied Sebastiano to the gym that Fabio Desideri had set up in the English basement of his villa on the Janiculum Hill. Fabio was running on a treadmill, wearing a gray tracksuit, with a towel around his neck.

  “Come here, Sebastia’, take a look at what a guy has to do to stay in shape!”

  The treadmill slowed down and Fabio, with a sigh, stepped down off the belt. Sebastiano handed him the envelope, and Fabio nodded with satisfaction.

  “That’s great, Sebastia’. But you shouldn’t have rushed all the way over here. Such a hurry . . . ”

  “Aren’t you going to count it?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  In one corner of the room, which was filled with all sorts of advanced fitness machines, was a refrigerator.

  “You want something to drink, Seba?”

  He shook his head no. Fabio tipped his head back, draining a small bottle of dietary supplement. On the left, a small door swung open, and a young brunette, naked and wet from the shower, emerged. By no means embarrassed at the presence of the two men, she strode through the room, shot Fabio a wink, to which he replied with a half smile, and emerged from the main door.

  “Geraldine,” Fabio explained, “a French actress. She takes two or three saunas a day, and she likes to walk around like that. A damned pretty girl.”

  “Another notch on the big bad macho man’s pistol?” Sebastiano asked ironically.

  “Sebastia’, I love you. And I respect you. But you need to learn to enjoy life, and stop thinking about nothing but money. Because, among other things, if I can speak frankly, money isn’t the only thing in life.”

  Fabio walked over to Sebastiano with a confidential look on his face. Then he wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a parody of a fraternal embrace. Sebastiano stiffened. Fabio heaved a sigh.

  “Listen to me, Seba. I want to be sincere with you. I’ve been feeling hemmed in for a while now.”

  Fabio Desideri knew how to conjure with words. The further he plunged into his plea, the greater Sebastiano’s sense of uneasiness grew. The message, the real message, was about to be delivered, at last. Fabio described his life as a wealthy, successful, but slightly bored man. He argued along the lines of the concept of “vital impetus.” He lingered on the importance of churning up stagnant waters. Nonsense. All of it nonsense to conceal the inevitable kicker.

  “Speak clearly, Fabio.”

  “The jubilee. I want in.”

  “You?”

  “Me. Why shouldn’t I? I have plenty of money, good connections, my own men. The pasture is broad and green, Sebastia’, one cow more or less doesn’t bother anyone. Quite the contrary . . . the fatter the cow gets, the more milk it gives to you!”

  “We don’t need your connections.”

  “Of course you don’t! Still, you need to give me a hand, seeing as how you’re all buddy-buddy with the folks that count.”

  His reasoning, all things considered, made perfect sense. Fabio was a member of the circle, a person upon whom he’d been able to count, up till now. Why shouldn’t he?

  Because of the method, Sebastiano concluded. Because that wasn’t a request, it was a false request. A demand. First I show you my muscles, and then I ask you to make a deal. Error, Fabietto, grave error.

  “I’ll have to talk to Samurai about it, Fabio. You know it’s up to him.”

  Fabio once again unleashed his dazzling smile. This time, enriched with a twist of venom.

  “You know, Seba, I’ve always wondered . . . who is Samurai, I mean, deep down? How can it be that half the world adores him and the other half shits their pants just at the sound of his name? For instance, let’s take someone like you, Sebastiano. In theory, you’re really the boss of Rome. In practice, though, you’re—what’s the term?—Samurai’s proconsul. And so: I’ve been straight with you, now I want you to be straight with me. What is Samurai for you? A brother, a father, a friend . . . or just a boss?”

  “I don’t have bosses.”

  But he said it under his breath.

  “Samurai is in prison, Sebastiano. He’s serving his sentence like a man, the real man that he is. I admire him . . . ”

  “Samurai will get out soon.”

  “You think so? Here’s what I say: precisely because I admire him, it’s time for Samurai to step aside. He’s there, and we . . . you and me . . . are here . . . ”

  Sebastiano felt his head spinning. A black shadow loomed over his mind. Nothing happens by chance. If this guy kept belittling Samurai in his presence, it must be because he’d sent a signal of some kind. Unconsciously, perhaps. Or perhaps deep inside, way down in the depths, they both were hoping for the same thing.

  To get rid of him.

  “I’ll inform Samurai of your offer and I’ll let you know.”

  Once he was alone, Fabio called Bogdan and told him to ask Geraldine if she felt like joining him in the sauna. He stripped and, after a fast, ice-cold shower, went into the booth to start sweating. Sebastiano had reacted as per expectations, but the seeds of doubt had been sown.

  Now the young man could yield territory, and Samurai could approve, or else a fight could break out. Odds, as things stood, were about even for either event. There were no certainties, except perhaps for one: from this moment on, it had become impossible to retrace his steps. And the next move had already been decided.

  Geraldine entered the sauna and got comfortable between his legs.

  Later, in the car, while his driver, Furio, was picking his way through crowded lunchtime traffic, Sebastiano wondered whether he might not have been too compliant. Maybe he didn’t need Samurai’s approval to strike back, and strike back hard. Fabio had definitely reared up on his hind legs. And he wasn’t about to stop.

  He remembered another one of Samurai’s lessons: arrogance will destroy the arrogant, but also those who fail to recognize it in time in their enemies.

  Or, as in this case, in the false friend.

  But there was still a question that was tormenting him: What is it you really want, Sebastiano?

  HOUSE OF JAZZ. MARCH 18TH. EVENING.

  Senator Polimeni adored jazz. It had been a passion of his youth, spawned among the sleeping bags and the tent cities at Castiglione del Lago in a long-ago summer of nearly forty years ago. In the wonderful, controversial 1970s, it was fashionable among the young people to attend Umbria Jazz, a peripatetic festival, free of charge, that traveled from castles to hillsides, bringing with it some of the finest names of American jazz. Polimeni had allowed himself to be dragged along by Rossana, who was always well informed about the newest developments. But he’d immediately felt uneasy among the beards, wooden clogs, sensations, breasts, promiscuity, tattered ripped jeans, bad wine, and every imaginable psychotropic substance known to western youth. A feeling of uneasiness that had been transformed into genuine pain when Rossana, naturally beautiful and treacherous, had dumped him unceremoniously to share a two-person pup tent with a long-haired freak from Montreal. He’d indulged himself, before throwing in the towel for good, in one last vagabond evening. And that’s when he had discovered jazz. It had been there, on the shores of Lake Trasimeno, in the midst of all those strangers, more interested in fleeting love affairs and improbable revolutionary utopias than in the adrenaline-charged phrasing of Archie Shepp, amidst mindless chitchat and mosquitoes, that the magic had infected him. And he would never again be free of that infection.

  Now, at the end of his first day as the mayor’s delegate for the jubilee, more thrilled than exhausted, he found himself in the auditorium of the Casa del Jazz, a Thirties-era villa that had been confiscated from the Mafia. The great Danilo Rea on piano was playing at being a harmonic Picasso, deconstructing and recomposing Armstrong and Monk. It was a Cubist game, brutal and deeply tender at the same time. Like life.


  Excited by the cascade of notes, he abandoned himself to a gust of optimism, absolutely uncharacteristic of him, letting himself luxuriate in it for the entire duration of the concert. We can do it, we can do it, he sang to himself, wandering through the entire park along with a small throng of passionate fans. He headed for the exit, shivering in the chilly night air that already had an undertone of springtime. He’d been smart to wear his old green loden overcoat. Even though he hadn’t been able to get his Kawasaki out of the garage, a symbol of a secret, and limited, pact with the overriding school of hedonism.

  Then he saw her.

  Chiara Visone.

  Chiara in jeans, with a light blue jacket, hair pulled back. A friendly, easygoing outfit yet still vaguely professional. He walked toward her, with determination. And with equal determination, without any preamble, he informed her that if she had any matter she wished to discuss, he’d be glad to see her in his office tomorrow. Now if she’d be so good as to excuse him . . .

  “Ciao, Adriano. How are you?”

  The light from a streetlamp illuminated her. Polimeni dropped his eyes. That was a vision that he truly feared he’d be unable to resist. Just as he couldn’t resist that faint pefume. Chiara resembled Rossana, and to a stunning degree of exactitude. That resemblance is what had first attracted him to her, back when they’d had their affair. He’d fooled himself into believing that he could find in her the great lost love of his life. He’d soon come to realize that the physical resemblance didn’t mean a damned thing. Rossana was all impetus, passion, and extremism. Chiara was a cold-blooded creature. She had placed herself strategically under that streetlamp, to offer him the most seductive part of herself. Chiara possessed an arsenal whose power was completely self-conscious and self-aware. Resigned, his hands plunged into the pockets of his loden overcoat, he stopped to hear what she had to say.