The Night of Rome Page 11
“I wanted to congratulate you on your appointment.”
“Did Laurenti send you?”
“Listen, Adriano . . . ”
“I saw you together, you know, at the club. How long was it before you took him to bed? Let me guess: that same night. Am I right?”
She ignored the provocation. He wanted to wound her, and he’d forgotten one of the many things he knew about her. There was no way to wound Chiara. Chiara was immune to wounds. And so he felt stupid and ineffectual. As usual, she had seized control without so much as moving a muscle.
“Forgive me, Chiara. I know why you’re here. Everyone’s salivating over the jubilee. But listen to me: the companies . . . forgive me the pun . . . but the companies that keep bad company are out of the running. There’s no room for them in the jubilee. Tell your new boyfriend that’s the way it is.”
Chiara caressed his shoulder. A gentle tender caress, full of the old and robust tenderness of things once shared together, things that last forever. Polimeni recoiled, irritated.
“Stop playing around, Chiara, and get to the point.”
“I know you better than anyone else, Adriano.”
Oh, there could be no doubt about that. She knew him better than anyone else. And that meant she could tell him certain truths. And she spoke to him, from the heart, to the extent that such a thing was possible for someone like her. “The appointment has gone to your head, Adriano. This is the great comeback you’ve never once stopped dreaming of since the party put you out to pasture. You’ll take on this new position with all the stubborn energy that has made you the unstoppable force that you are, you won’t just do everything possible, you’ll do more. If you were a man with faith, you’d put this on the level of miracles. If you were a man with faith, you’d aspire to sainthood. But you’re not a man with faith, and so you’ll make up your mind to design your jubilee, leave your mark, your imprint. And all this is perfectly right, Adriano, and I’m not here to question it. It’s not a personal matter. There shouldn’t be any personal matters involved in politics. You remember that? It’s one of the things you taught me. You were my only teacher, my one, sole mentor. Everything I know about politics, I owe to you. And I have cherished those teachings, Adriano, I’ve treasured them. No personal matters. We’re talking about Rome. Rome needs to get back on its feet, just as our country needs to get back on its feet. I’m afraid that your thirst for redemption, your need to win, will make you lose sight of this objective, and I’m here to ward off the worst. Forget about the club, forget about your long-ago protégé. Forget about the left. That’s something else you taught me, once: Italy is a right-wing country. Its profound depths are reactionary. And I know how to make your teachings pay off, Adriano. In order to win, the left wing has got to disappear. It has to become a moderate wing. And I want to win.”
“In other words, the left wing is going to have to become the right wing.”
The line, thought Polimeni once it had left his lips, was meant to sound ironic, but he’d uttered it with an undertone of bitterness. The truth is that he needed to break the flow, or he’d be overwhelmed, submerged, drowned in it. An objective achieved at least in part: Chiara, if nothing else, had caught her breath. There was another quality of hers that it was hard to resist. Her rhetoric. Chiara knew how to communicate in an instinctive manner. She could captivate a knot of hostile interlocutors, dominate a television talk-show set, whip up or calm down audiences of all kinds. And that wasn’t something he’d taught her. She got that from within, it was in her DNA. When he had been at the top of his game, in order to keep himself from being slaughtered in the field of debate, he’d had to submit to the training of an expert in communications, and he was still ashamed of the memory. He’d had to comply with certain rules that he found hateful, because otherwise his “message” wouldn’t have fit into the standard thirty-second attention span. Along the way, moreover, the message had become completely evanescent, but as far as he could tell, that didn’t seem to matter much.
And anyway, no matter how hard he tried, it hadn’t worked.
“You’re uttering quite a string of lovely words, Chiara, but what does all this have to do with Sebastiano Laurenti?”
“Sebastiano Laurenti is just one more guy. A businessman, an entrepreneur, a profiteer, a soldier of fortune, an organizer of resources, call him what you want, Adriano. But we need people like him. That’s another thing that you taught me. Or have you forgotten the ‘sources’ we drank from while the party was in a state of crisis? The Russian rubles? All I’m asking you is not to forget the past, our past, Adriano. How many ambitious undertakings were nurtured and made possible in part thanks to ruthless men like Sebastiano? And how many noble enterprises were ultimately sacrificed on the altar of moralism. Weren’t you the one who told me about Saint-Just, the great revolutionary, and who asked me to reflect on that terrible phrase of his: ‘You can’t govern in innocence’?”
“He meant something else by that . . . ”
“The city is suffocating. The country is suffocating. When you’re suffocating you don’t really care whether the hand that gives you oxygen is clean or not. Milan had its Expo, Rome will get its jubilee. Don’t try to go against it, Adriano. That’s all I ask you. We’ll do things properly, in full respect of the regulations, as far as that’s possible. I don’t want to die innocent. I want to live.”
“There have to be some limits, Chiara.”
“But of course there will. And I’m certainly not to going to go beyond them.”
“Then what’s your limit?”
Chiara locked arms with him and this time he put up no resistance.
“Rome’s never had a female mayor.”
“Martin Giardino is doing a fine job.”
“And who says otherwise? But someday, sooner or later, Rome is going to have a female mayor.”
“And in the meantime?”
“And in the meantime, the companies that keep bad company are out of the running, but the other companies are going to need oxygen to survive.”
“You’re asking too much, Chiara. And what’s more, you’re really not in any position to ask for anything at all. In whose name are you speaking here? Your own personal name? In the name of your party? In Laurenti’s name?”
She hadn’t remembered him being so rigid, so inflexible. Something she’d said had annoyed him. Something wrong. A detail she’d overlooked. Or maybe she’d only fooled herself into thinking that she could control him, the way she’d once done. Then, all at once, it dawned on her.
Adriano was jealous.
She felt a sudden burst of rage against him. After all, he was just an old man. A mangy old wolf, a top dog fading into the sunset, infuriated by the young male who had dethroned him. Why didn’t he just step aside and bask in the last rays of the setting sun, and accept the inevitable end, with his books and his ancient myths that no one gave a damn about anymore?
She pulled away from him, with a hint of distaste.
“Don’t try to get in my way, Adriano. You know the kind of things I’m capable of. You taught me yourself how to win a political fight. Don’t forget that.”
Polimeni watched her walk away, and he felt a stirring sense of satisfaction. Chiara’s stride, once so lithe and self-confident, had been transformed into an angry stride, like a princess incapable of tolerating a refusal. He had loved her, and he had lost her. The satisfaction changed suddenly into bitterness. The perfect woman, the one he’d been chasing all his life, would have been a carefully mixed cocktail of Rossana and Chiara, and perhaps they even existed, women like that. It just turned out that Adriano Polimeni hadn’t been lucky enough to meet one of them. Or else, more simply, the perfect woman doesn’t exist.
But one thing he knew was that imperfect politicians do exist. Chiara had reminded him of who he was and where he’d come from. How accommodating he’d been in the past
and how hypocritical he risked sounding, now that he had discovered a new rigidity. He, Polimeni, wasn’t Martin Giardino, and he wasn’t Father Giovanni, for that matter. He wasn’t so pure. But, once all was said and done, it came down to a question of limits. Was Sebastiano Laurenti a man for all seasons, a soldier of fortune, the paragon of a typically Italian type . . . or something much worse? He still couldn’t say, but one day, soon, he’d know. And when that day came, he and Chiara would resume the discussion.
In any case, it had been a bad parting of the ways. She had set forth a proposal that was, all things considered, perfectly reasonable, and he had let his intransigence overwhelm him and guide his hand. He’d reacted like a spurned lover more than as the homo politicus he ought to be. Yes, no point beating about the bush. He was still in love.
OSTIA. NIGHT.
On straightaways, the Ferrari 488 GTB regularly hit 185 MPH. It was nighttime, and a strong sirocco wind had sprung up, unleashing a furious clanking in the rigging of the sailboats moored at the central wharf of the port of Ostia. Fabio Desideri was really satisfied with the new masterpiece of engineering from Maranello. His latest toy had been delivered just a few hours ago. Two of his Albanians were barring access to the port area, ready to dissuade night owls tempted to go for a stroll in the wee hours. But no one was likely to show up, really. Ostia threatened to become a no-man’s-land. Samurai on the one hand and the investigations on the other had laid waste to that stretch of coastline, once so flourishing and promising. Now the families were scraping by on crumbs. Rome was turning gray, and Ostia was dull and dying. It was up to him to turn on the bright lights again. And that’s why, instead of a fantastic piece of pussy who really would have appreciated the experience, aboard his four-wheeled missile he was giving a ride to a trembling and sweat-drenched Danilo Mariani. The real estate developer had been shocked when Fabio’s men picked him up from the nightclub at the Pigneto where he’d been negotiating with a couple of trannies for a couple of ounces of coke. Diseased-looking trannies, low-quality cocaine, but then, of course, no one was giving him credit anymore. Fabio had issued very precise instructions. Danilo really had slid to the bottom of the barrel. It was Fabio’s job to bring him back to the surface. Under the proper conditions, of course.
“Okay, here we are.”
With a sudden screech of brakes, the nose of the red vehicle came to a halt just six feet from the water’s edge. Right in front of the Mykonos IV, 118 feet of carbon fiber hull that Fabio had taken away for a song from a Greek entrepreneur who was sinking under the burden of his debts. Gotta love that Merkel. The two men got out of the car, Fabio with his lithe step, Danilo panting and coughing.
“I still don’t understand why you brought me here, Fabio.”
“Do you remember the Waterfront, Dani’?”
“Of course I do! A world-class con job.”
Samurai, and his ancient brigade of faggot priests, loan sharks, real estate speculators, retired Mafiosi, and bribe-hungry politicos, had decided to turn that stretch of the Tyrhennian coastline into a paradise for the rich and famous. A marina, designer shops, a casino and a mountain of artificial snow that not even the most perverse sheikh of Dubai would have dared to imagine. It had all gone to hell in a handbasket, of course.
“It just went wrong this time, Fabio.”
“Bullshit. It was all backwards from the start, Dani’.”
It couldn’t have worked. Let me explain the right way to do things, Mister Coca. What’s needed here is a commercial port, for freighters, big ships, with a container facility, to attract big Chinese and Indian money, and maybe even the Russians. Double the major routes leading to Rome. Serious business, not the homemade Disneyland that your friend Samurai had had in mind. Because you need to think big, starting with the jubilee. Ostia needs to become big like Gioia Tauro. Rome’s great door to the world, swinging open on the eve of the Olympics.
“The Olympics?”
“The Olympics, Danilo. The Olympics that they’re going to have to give us in 2020 or at the very most, in 2024, one or the other, we’re in no hurry. And then don’t forget about the new stadium for A.S. Roma. Where are they going to build it? In Tor di Valle. And exactly where is Tor di Valle? Right around the corner. Our fortune is all right here. It’s just whether we want to reach out and grab it.”
“What do you mean we?”
Danilo, shaking with a tremor that only a line of shit could conquer, stared at him with his stolid gaze. Fabio laid a hand on his shoulder. He really would have to explain every detail to him, every last thing to this moron. Like a little kid.
“You and me, Danilo. Just imagine this place full of people, ships, sailors, business . . . and imagine the sign outside the construction site, with great big flaming letters, reading MARIANI DESIDERI CONSTRUCTION, INC.”
“Mariani and Desideri?”
“You and me. Mariani and Desideri.”
A spark of understanding was staring to make its way into the real estate developer’s befuddled mind.
“Wait, you’re offering me a deal?”
“Fifty-fifty. You need cash and I need a name. I’ve got cash, you’ve got a name. Tell me yes and tomorrow morning at 10 AM we can go to the notary’s office and draw up the papers.”
“Wait, but have you talked to Sebastiano?”
“Oh, Dani’, you’re forty years old and you’re still running to ask permission from Papà?”
Danilo Mariani shut his eyes. He could feel the energy building up inside of him. Mariani and Desideri. The construction site. Starting over, and starting over in style, with serious scale. No more shuffling around trying to wheedle charity out of the others. Because how had Sebastiano treated him, when they’d had to negotiate? Like a beggar, even worse, like a homeless bum. So fuck him . . .
“Fabio, would you let me take this beast out for a spin?”
The other man opened the door for him with a big grin on his face. Danilo got in and started the engine. A terrifying roar. He gathered his nerves and put it in reverse. He barely touched the accelerator. The velocity it took off at caught him off guard. He jammed on the brakes. The Ferrari fishtailed, then did a 360. In a state of panic, Danilo tried to shift gears. The roar died out in an aggressive lurch. Danilo got out with a sheepish look on his face.
“Oh well, maybe next time, Fabio. Thanks.”
“So: are you in?”
“Yes, I’m in.”
“Good boy. Tomorrow we’ll make it official. The boys will take you home.”
Fabio took off, tires screeching. From the far end of the port the SUV approached. Inside were the two tattooed Albanians. They dropped him off outside his apartment house. The more muscle-bound of the pair handed him a package.
“With Fabio’s best regards. Take it easy, that’s pink Bolivian. Ninety-eight percent pure.”
Danilo stretched out on the sheets he hadn’t changed in days.
He snorted the first line just to get himself calmed down. The second line was to regain mental clarity. The third was so he could think. And beneath the euphoria that he’d felt at Fabio’s proposal, the euphoria that had driven him to accept the offer right then and there, a soft and insinuating fear began to slither. He tried to ward it off with the fourth snort, but the fear grew in size, looming into terror, and the terror soon degenerated into paranoia. The last time he’d done something of his own volition, without checking with Sebastiano, Fabio had beaten his accountant within an inch of his life. And then who had taken care of things and set them straight? Sebastiano. Sure, of course, Sebastiano treated him like shit, but then Fabio, he too had been all kind, plying him with blandishments, and then, once he’d gotten what he wanted, had dumped him on his henchman. That’s not the way friends treat friends, is it? Which meant that Fabio wasn’t a friend, he was a boss. And, hold on a second . . . what if it had all been a trap?
He could j
ust imagine Sebastiano’s furious, icy expression, his imperious command, the first rule, never, in any case, break this rule: I have to be informed of everything. Of everything, you understand? Nude as he was, he hurried around locking doors and windows, and then went back to the bed, clammy with sweat, clutching his Skorpion tactical crossbow, the jewel of his weapons collection. With that masterpiece in his hands, in the past, he’d slaughtered more or less everything that could fly in the skies over Rome and the surrounding areas. If they come to get me, I’ll be ready. If they come in through that door, I’ll run them through with one arrow after another. He was surprised to find himself shouting: “Come on, come on, you filthy bastards, I’ll tear you limb from limb!” He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror.
He searched for consolation by snorting a fifth line.
His heart was racing feverishly. His nose started bleeding. He grabbed his cell phone and called Sebastiano.
V.
THURSDAY, MARCH 19TH
Saint’s Day: St. Joseph
LOCANDA DEI BRIGANTI. EVENING.
Locanda dei Briganti, in the heart of Ponte Milvio. A location renowned for an imperial battle that took place so many centuries before new life was brought to the district by Federico Moccia and his love locks, which were fastened to the bridge in great numbers. The most fashionable place in all Rome, according to the Romans. Chiara Visone sighed. She was sipping a Bellini and looking around, deeply bored. Sebastiano was shaking hands with soccer players and actors from television series. Roman-style VIPs. It wasn’t Sebastiano’s fault, of course not, he was doing his best. The real problem was with Rome, or, really, with Naples. Her Naples. The most refined and pretentious city in the world. The city with the most elegant men on earth. Sebastiano, dressed to the nines, in a sober dark suit and a Diane De Clercq tie, certainly put on a nice show. But Naples was quite another matter. From every point of view. To Chiara’s eyes, that restaurant was little more than a hybrid between a bordello in Tirana, Albania, and a loft party for neomelodici, the musicians of modern Naples. Little settees and red armchairs, white walls hanging with copies of Warhol prints, large hanging lamps fastened to the ceiling with rusty chains, cement-colored resin flooring, fuchsia and black curtains. An absolute horror show. But at least, according to what Sebastiano had said, trying to reassure her, no one would be selling coke, and there were no escorts cruising the dining room. A rare respite.