The Night of Rome Page 17

  The pharyngitis was on the mend, and his voice was still slightly hoarse. The mayor found the offer exciting, and told Adriano that he too was working on something similar.

  “How much should I ask?” Polimeni inquired.

  “That’s up to you,” Martin Giardino exhorted him. “Go with your gut. That money is blessed oxygen for us.”

  Polimeni came back to the table, unfurled the smile of the consummate politico, and then improvised a polite harangue about the unusual nature of the request, the fragility of and the need to protect the artistic patrimony of a city unlike any other, a city like Rome, and then, when he was done, after a well timed pause, he named his price.

  “Five hundred thousand.”

  Mr. Gu didn’t bat an eye. He got up unhurriedly, and reached out to shake hands with Polimeni. The next day one of his men would meet with the senator at his hotel to work out the details. Mr. Gu was honored to have made his acquaintance, and happy at the way the deal had worked out. Now Mr. Gu had unavoidable commitments he would need to tend to and he was regrettably obliged to leave this very pleasurable company. And so Mr. Gu and the lovely Crystal took their leave. May laid a hand on Adriano’s shoulder.

  “You asked for too little. Now he’s convinced he can rob you blind. I’m so sorry.”

  MARCH 27TH.

  Sebastiano and Chiara toured Seoul in the Bentley that he’d rented, complete with chauffeur, indispensable when it came to finding one’s way through the baffling traffic of the great metropolis. Chiara had had it up to here with business conferences. When push came to shove, the Koreans had proved themselves to be unrivaled in the art of negotiation, and the undersecretaries were clearly not up to the job. The sole concessions of any real worth were the ones she’d obtained, with her charm and her tenacity. Something that had greatly annoyed the undersecretaries. And in fact she had found out that an urgent meeting had been called, and she hadn’t been invited to it. It had occurred to her to burst into the meeting and tell them all to go to hell, but that would have been unseemly. For that matter, when all was said and done, she alone would be returning to Rome with real, concrete results to show for her trip.

  “At least for a little while I’ll have you all to myself, Chiara.”

  She read the passion in his eyes. That young man was moving fast. She was very flattered and also a little worried.

  They wandered the length and the breadth of the city. Chiara was impressed by the energy that the Koreans displayed. A continuous sense of electricity, a collective activity in no way comparable to the byzantine slowness of Italy. The future, here and now. Sebastiano pointed out to her that Seoul, like Rome, was built on seven hills and that a river ran through it.

  “Rome is stuck in the past. We need to learn from these people.”

  “Rome is eternal.”

  “That’s just a pat phrase.”

  “In any case, when we get home, there’ll be a fine mess to greet us.”

  “Let’s hope it all goes well.”

  “Do you still have any doubts?”

  “Everything could still go sideways, Sebastiano.”

  “That would still be positive for us.”

  “I don’t know, I’m not so sure.”

  They stopped in the heart of Gangnam, the luxurious neighborhood. Sebastiano suggested a selfie in front of the Bentley. It could be a little cameo on that Rich Kids of Instagram she liked so much. Chiara dismissed the idea.

  “Naw. A little cameo. There’s one thing about me you still haven’t figured out, Sebastiano: I’m not a girl for little cameos. I’m the star of the show. Or I’m not in it.”

  Right before Polimeni’s eyes, the Bentley went sailing past. There go another couple of almond-eyed moneybags who are dreaming about the mythical west, he thought to himself. Gangnam reminded him of the mocking video that the Chinese artist, Ai Weiwei, had made. Gangnam. A perimeter of broad avenues dominated by the signs that dominate all around the world, in so many suburbs with so many broad avenues that are absolutely identical in every detail. Pra-da-Ver-sa-ce-Vuit-ton-Ar-ma-ni-Guc-ci-Car-tier. The hysterical and obsessive mantra of globalized prosperity. The hysterical and obsessive rap of the destroyers of globalized prosperity. Pra-da-Ver-sa-ce-Vuit-ton . . . He remembered the mocking pamphlet against the dictatorship of fashion labels that he’d written years ago now. It called for incendiary prospects, it showed off destructive impulses. It never saw the light of day. After reading the manuscript, Rossana had rolled up one of the pages to light a joint off it.

  Adriano Polimeni, the loyal Communist who had suddenly turned into a purveyor of incendiary tracts. “This shit has nothing to do with you, Adriano.” A bitter argument had followed. Adriano had done his best to defend his position by summoning to his aid the early Marx, Lafargue, Brecht, and Mayakovsky. “If you’re really interested in violating some taboos,” Rossana had devastated him, “why don’t you take a toke off this joint. If nothing else, afterwards, the sex is fantastic.” Of course, Rossana had been right. He’d never had anything against nice clothing, especially if worn by a pretty woman or a good-looking man. And increasingly, with the passage of time, aesthetics grew more and more valuable to him. For that matter, some of these couturiers had proven to be people of genuine culture. Armani and Prada had started foundations and museums. Modern patrons of the arts. Welcome, then, my brothers and sisters, fashion designers all. We need more of you. And what about Mr. Gu! If with his money he were to help us, say, fix up a preschool or a daycare center, who could argue against that? What’s more: have you ever seen a Roman real estate developer invest a penny, one penny, in his own city? Sure, he’d written that horrible pamphlet to make an impression, to seem original for once. A century ago.

  His cell phone rang. It’s probably Martin Giardino, he assumed. It said unknown caller.

  “Adriano, what were you thinking! Here you are in Seoul and you don’t even tell me! I have to find out from the undersecretary that you’re here in my city! Tonight you’re a guest at my house, eh, I accept no excuses!”

  As a young man, Marzio Galatola had been a left-wing extremist and militant. He’d studied Asian languages—Chinese, Japanese, and Korean—and written major books about Asian culture. Over time, he’d moved increasingly rightward, until one day he’d called it quits with politics and had moved to Seoul. From there, he wrote for various publications, both print and online, and pursued an uncertain number of activities of indistinct nature and purpose. He and Adriano had known each other since they were kids. Adriano suspected that Marzio was some kind of a spy, and what’s more, spying for the wrong side. But he’d never broken off the friendship. Marzio was on a first-name basis with half the world. And most important of all, he was an eternal youth with an irresistible enthusiasm.

  Marzio lived on the seventh floor—the penthouse—of an elegant compound on the western limits of Gangnam. Armed guards, bulletproof glass, air conditioning turned down way too cold. Marzio greeted May as if she were an old friend and asked her to take his very warmest regards to Mr. Gu. The place was teeming with old friends. Chiara Visone—we met once in Beijing, a really remarkable woman, Adriano, but I don’t have to tell you that—the two undersecretaries—a little helpless, they’ll find their way, if you want to negotiate with Asians you need a certain amount of experience, it’s not like you can come here and just order people around, they’ll eat you alive, and believe me, these people have got money by the bucketful—a few grim faces, sad and morose—foreign press or locals, harmless, when I can keep them from drinking too much—and Sebastiano Laurenti.

  “Adriano, let me introduce Sebastiano Laurenti.”

  “My pleasure, Polimeni.”

  They shook hands a second too long. They looked each other in the eye a second too long. They told each other everything there was to tell. Then Sebastiano veered over toward a little trio of Asians and Adriano took the master of the hous
e aside.

  “What do you know about this Laurenti?”

  “He’s a businessman, or perhaps I should say, he looks after the business of various entrepreneurs. When I heard that he was in Seoul, I invited him over.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “This is the first time I’ve ever seen him. He’s a friend of friends.”

  “Which friends?”

  “Just friends, Adriano. We’re grown-ups.”

  Polimeni quickly grabbed a glass and turned around. Chiara was standing in front of him, smiling. Actually, though, the usual ice was in her eyes.

  “May, isn’t it? Not bad, your girlfriend.”

  “And I see that you’re with your usual boyfriend. Do you bring him along with you as a lapdog, or as a guard dog?”

  “He’s here on his own, on business. I didn’t even know he was in Seoul.”

  “Nice. Maintain appearances. But don’t let too many people see you out and about together, you never know.”

  In fact, among the sofas of Marzio Galatola’s apartment, Chiara and Sebastiano seemed like a couple of chance acquaintances who were doing everything they could to avoid each other. Polimeni still felt ill at ease. He tossed back one glass after another, until his head started to spin.

  He caught a worried glance from May: two horny stockbrokers had wedged her into a corner. Adriano walked over and took her by the arm.

  “Let’s go. I feel like I’m suffocating here. Take me somewhere else. Someplace you know and like.”

  They left without saying goodbye to anyone. Adriano caught a sarcastic glance from Chiara, but what the hell, he decided he couldn’t care less. May took him to the fish market, where they ate dinner, surrounded by noisy young people and aged fishermen, motionless in their sagacity. Polimeni was captivated by the unsettling crabs and the immense sea urchins. Two friends of May’s joined them. They were studying filmmaking at the university, she explained. They know about my work. They won’t cause any trouble. The sake and the company soon took effect. The senator really started to like South Korea. They wound up in a karaoke bar. This was Polimeni’s first time. He treated them all: forty dollars for a private room and another forty for two excellent bottles of sake. May and a young man sang a duet of “Karma Chameleon.”

  When it was his turn, Polimeni furiously searched for a piece by Cohen or Dylan. Nothing. He’d run out of patience. He demanded that they turn off the karaoke machine. He grabbed the microphone, accompanied by the amused glances of the young people. He closed his eyes and started singing: la mia solitudine sei tu / la mia rabbia dentro sei solo tu . . . The verses of the song poured out crystal clear, his voice dripped with regret and grief. A long angry lament, dedicated to Chiara. To Chiara, lost once and for all. Then, suddenly, he got a grip on himself. What had come over him? An old drunk, pathetic and ridiculous. He gave the microphone to May, muttering his apologies. But the young people said nothing, and were clearly very respectful. Then, suddenly, a wave of applause. May was struggling to choke back her tears.

  “Did she hurt you very badly, Adriano?”

  “Let’s go somewhere else to get a drink, May.”

  XI.

  THURSDAY, MARCH 26TH–FRIDAY, MARCH 27TH

  PIETRALATA.

  At five in the morning, even Pietralata seemed pretty. Or maybe it really was. Even if there was nothing left of the great fields between the Via Tiburtina and the Via Nomentana—Prata Lata they once called them in Latin. And anyway, Beagle Boy had been born there, in that borgata. Therefore, he decided, it wasn’t even open to discussion. The place was pretty. Period. And those suckers from Casal del Marmo can boast all they want about their town. Pietralata was a horse of a different color. Period.

  He lifted the visor of his full-face helmet, grazing with his fingertips the sticker of a beagle that adorned the front of the helmet, releasing his grip on the accelerator, and allowing the oversized scooter to lean gently into the narrow tight curves of Via dei Monti di Pietralata. He’d gotten off work half an hour early at Totalpolice, the private security agency where he and his men had been hired at Sebastiano’s behest, and he couldn’t wait to get out of that stupid sheriff’s uniform. What a fucked-up job he’d wound up doing. Anyway, it was Wagner’s orders, and there was no arguing with Wagner’s orders.

  Five minutes and he’d be home.

  He really needed to get some sleep, in part because the thought of the two men killed at the Locanda dei Briganti in Ponte Milvio continued to torment him. Lord knows, these weren’t the first people he’d seen killed. And he wasn’t especially worried about the mess the police might kick up about those two murders—though he’d like to see how they could ever trace it back to him. But really, things were looking bad with Fabietto. And after all, he, Beagle Boy, had never even seen this Fabietto. Yes, he was in the network, but from there to a gang war, really . . . And anyway, the gypsy’s visit to Sebastiano’s office had made it clear to everyone that Fabietto had eyes and ears everywhere. It wouldn’t take him long to track back to him and Wagner. That wasn’t a possibility. It was a certainty. Well, then we’ll see who’s got balls and who hasn’t.

  The low fuel warning light came on and he decided to make a quick stop at a self-service station, a few hundred yards further on, on the right. He felt his smartphone vibrate in the pocket of his bomber jacket. It was Wagner. He pulled up at the gas station. He turned off the motor, pulled the scooter up on its kickstand, took off his helmet.

  “I’m right here, Wagner. Yes, yes, I’m on my way home . . . Don’t worry, it’s all right . . . Sure, sure, I’m on the lookout . . . On the alert . . . You know for yourself, I’m not the kind of guy that lets his dick get eaten up by flies. Sure . . . we’ll get them tomorrow, for sure.”

  Beagle Boy ended the call and ran a hand through his hair. Wagner had nothing to tell him, so the meaning of the phone call must be something else. To reassure him, he thought. And to reassure himself. The way you do with real friends. And that filled him with pride. You don’t wage war all by yourself, after all.

  He slipped a ten-euro banknote into the automatic vending unit, picked the octane he needed, and slowly pulled out the pump.

  That’s when they arrived.

  There were four of them on two motorcycles. They came whipping around the curve and they didn’t even give him time to grab the Beretta 7.65 he had shoved down the back of his pants. The first two were on him in a flash. They wore full-face motorcycle helmets. As did the others, for that matter. A brutal violent kick to the wrist knocked the gun out of his hand. Then he felt a metal bar brought down hard on his back, right on his shoulder blades. His lungs exploded. He fell face-first onto the asphalt and spat blood, screaming with the pain, until he felt the cold pistol barrel on the back of his neck.

  “With Fabio’s best wishes,” said a mocking voice.

  And then the gunshot.

  While his men were executing Beagle Boy, Fabio Desideri was slipping the moorings of his Mykonos IV and heading out to sea with his latest hookup, an Estonian babe who stood six feet tall if she was an inch. She’d expressed a desire for “a long journey by sea, so we can get lost together,” and her wish was Fabio’s command. Anyone else might have thought: This isn’t the time for that, there’s a gang war on, you can’t abandon your territory, people will say that you’re running away. That’s how anyone else would have thought about it. But not him.

  His territory was under control and strongly garrisoned, his men were taking care of that. His retaliation against Sebastiano had hit its target even though, for the moment, in terms of the death count they were still down by one. But there was plenty of time to make up for that. No, what counted now was quite another matter. At the exact instant when he had chosen his future, Fabio had also decided that he was only going to take the best from life, leaving all the rest to the miserable losers. He didn’t want to live hiding out in some fo
ul-smelling bunker, dragging out his days in the fear of the gunshot that could arrive at any second, simmer slowly in the possession of mountains of cash that he’d never have the freedom to spend. He didn’t want to live the shitty life most criminals lead. Let them believe they had him on the run. He’d get over it. And then Fabio would come back to Rome at just the right moment, to deliver the final blow.

  He clapped his hands, and a sailor came running.

  “Champagne,” he ordered.

  The girl with the long blonde hair stared out at the trembling lights along the coastline with an expression of mystical rapture.

  The best, Fabio. Nothing but the best.

  XII.

  FRIDAY, MARCH 27TH–SATURDAY, MARCH 28TH

  Saints’ Days: St. Rupert, Bishop;

  St. Gontran, King and Confessor

  NEWSROOM OF IL MERIDIANO. FRIDAY THE 27TH. LUNCHTIME.

  Five pages. A hundred fifty lines. Perfect. Spartaco Liberati lifted his stubby, hairy fingers from the Mac keyboard and saluted his masterpiece with a resonant baritone belch that echoed like a thunderclap in the open-plan office of the newsroom. He turned around to see what impression he’d made with his belch, but he discovered there was no one else in the room. It was lunchtime and, after the hasty meeting to plan out the issue coming out next Thursday, everyone else had taken off. Work ethic, come take me, I’m yours.

  He booted up Safari to check out the online odds for the A.S. Roma game on Sunday, he made a mental calculation of how much he was out already that month—five thousand euros, damn them to hell—and decided to skip it. For once, he’d be better advised to just flatter himself by reading the copy-and-paste article that he’d dragged out of that muckraker Malgradi.