The Night of Rome Read online

  Temistocle was doodling, distractedly, on a scrap of paper, every so often shooting indifferent glances at the statue of Julius Caesar, an original Roman piece dating back to the first century, which stood, between stuccoes and frescoes, watching grimly over the the day-to-day efforts of the crew of politicos high atop the Capitoline Hill. Julius Caesar: a big boss, a power monger, no two ways about it, but he’d put his trust in the wrong people. An error that he, Malgradi, was never going to make.

  And so he went on doodling, this time sketching a baked kid lamb on its bed of potatoes. That lamb had the bearded face of Martin Giardino. The much-loved delicacy of the coming Easter dinner. Alice Savelli switched on her microphone and cleared her throat. But before she could begin to speak, a councilman sitting to her left interrupted her. Gioioso, one of the DP members who had underwritten the no-confidence motion.

  “I request the floor for an urgent communication, Mr. Speaker.”

  The speaker of the assembly—an old fox who, damn his eyes, had refused to take part in the game because they’d failed to strike a deal over a couple of hires at the zoo—glanced over at the mayor. Martin Giardino gestured to proceed.

  Temistocle winked an eye at Jabba, who was rubbing his hands. The dance was beginning: but first, a little floor show.

  Temistocle turned toward the audience in the room and gestured to Settechiappe. The guy, who owed his nickname to his reputation as a serial winner at the horse track, had connections in the borgatas and the favelas, and for a thousand euros he was capable of assembling at least a thousand miserable wretches willing to show up on command. For the occasion of this surprise party for Martin Giardino, Temistocle had shelled out 1,500 euros (drawn from the funds in support of rape victims, of course), in order to ensure that there was a suitable claque on call at the event.

  Settechiappe nodded, in a sign of understanding, and let go with a savage yell.

  “German, go home! You’ve busted our balls!”

  It was the agreed-upon signal. The crowd let loose. Shouts, whistles, sarcastic handclapping, feet pounding the ancient floor that was paved with marble from Ostia, wisecracks, Bronx cheers, even party blowers left over from last Carnival, with their harsh, strident sounds.

  The speaker called in vain for the chamber to come to order, demanding that the ushers intervene. Malgradi stood up and spoke in a heartfelt tone to the hecklers.

  “Please, gentlemen, please! Let the session proceed in an orderly manner! Cease this ruckus!”

  This too was part of the performance. Malgradi the wise, who placates the indignant populace. The shouting died down all at once. Settechiappe exhaled a last, unconvinced, “Fascists!” and let himself be dragged away by the ushers. The horde of hired immigrants and jobless men swarmed out of the chamber in an orderly line. After all, they’d done an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.

  Councilman Gioioso was able to take the floor.

  “I intend to withdraw my support for the no-confidence motion presented by Councilwoman Savelli.”

  Temistocle jumped up onto his chair. I intend to withdraw . . . what the hell was happening? He glanced over at Jabba. The stunned expression on his pallbearer face convinced him that the profiteer knew less than he did. Gioioso cleared his throat and finished his statement.

  “As a result of an in-depth reflection on political issues, I have come to the conclusion that I must reaffirm my confidence in our mayor, who is doing an exemplary job and who deserves, in this delicate moment, a heartfelt renewal of our support, for the good of our beloved city.”

  A sarcastic buzz greeted the pompous declaration. Jabba took his head in both hands.

  Two more council members withdrew their support.

  Malgradi reacted. The situation had suddenly changed. Someone was trying to fix him good. But they would fail at the effort. It took a lot bigger balls than any of them had to screw someone like him. There was only thing to be done.

  He asked for the floor again.

  “Mister Speaker, I had a great many doubts about this motion, to which in fact I did not adhere, but I am a man of my party. In the face of a clear division between the DP and the coalition council, and the mayor’s reluctance to take adequate measures to deal with the problem, I expressed to several of my friends my belief that the time had come for a clarification of ideas. But I never believed that the best way forward would be that of falling into line behind the members of the Five Star movement. Now it seems to me that wisdom is prevailing. An alarm bell has been rung, and the mayor I hope has heard. At this point, I believe, the clarification of ideas will be possible, and the motion has no more reason to move foreward.”

  From the desks on the right a mocking ripple of applause arose. Only Jabba seemed to understand the meaning of the about-face, and he nodded sagely to show he’d grasped it.

  Alice Savelli cursed herself for not having gone with her first impulse. She should have told Malgradi to go to hell, avoided allowing herself to be contaminated. Turning to the Internet had amounted to political suicide. She felt polluted, dirty. And she too knew there was only one thing to do.

  “Mister Mayor, the group that I represent withdraws its individual no-confidence motion against you. I believe that you are a very bad mayor, but in this chamber, this morning, things are happening that I don’t like one bit, and that have nothing to do with you. I believe that this city would only benefit if you were to stand down. But not today and, above all, not like this.”

  From the right, catcalls, laughter, mockery. The speaker called for quiet. Temistocle stalked out of the hall, ignoring with great dignity the sneers that his former Fascist comrades were sending his way.

  In the antechamber he found Settechiappe.

  “We kicked up a nice fat mess, didn’t we, Temi’?”

  He repressed his impetuous desire to kick him down the hall. He wouldn’t even have been able to do it, anyway. He felt weak. He could feel a worrisome sharp pain in his left forearm. The last thing he needed right now was a heart attack. Shitface turncoats, traitors, scumbags . . .

  He dismissed Settechiappe with a vague wave of the hand, and he swallowed a couple of pills for his blood pressure. He sat down on a bench to get his strength back and so witnessed, helplessly, the procession of council members as they filed out of the chamber, one by one. They all walked past him, without giving him so much as a glance. And if anyone inadvertently chanced to look at him, they immediately looked away, as if suddenly filled with shame.

  Someone locked the doors to the room. The drug began to have its beneficial effects. Slowly, Malgradi recovered and got to his feet, hobbling out of the Palazzo Senatorio—the Senatorial Palace. He was greeted by a sickly sun. He’d fended off the blow, but a blow it had been, and a devastating one. He got on his iPhone and made the first of a long succession of calls.

  MUSIC PARK AUDITORIUM. NIGHT.

  This was a terrible situation. If looked at carefully, the simplest move was just to go with Fabio Desideri. The bastard was on the run. Wagner’s boys were keeping an eye on the clubs and restaurants and Sebastiano was in constant contact with Bogdan. He’d ordered a truce. There was no point in wasting energy. Sooner or later Fabio had to come back to Rome. And when he did, they’d nail him. The Anacletis were at a loss. Fabio had made promises and then gone on the run. Silvio had phoned him that afternoon. There was a return to Canossa in the air.

  The problem, the real problem, was the politics.

  Chiara Visone had screwed him.

  Sebastiano spoke with Malgradi and spoke with Spartaco Liberati. The article against Martin Giardino and Father Giovanni would not be published. The editor in chief had blocked it. The editor in chief had done more than that. He had fired Spartaco. With a generous severance package that Spartaco had accepted without blinking.

  “Better than a kick in the teeth, no, Sebastia’? What else was I supposed
to do?”

  Sebastiano had come to learn that Il Meridiano was to benefit from a special round of funding from a consortium linked to the League of Cooperatives.

  There were no two ways about it. Chiara Visone had screwed him all up and down the line.

  Sebastiano unleashed Wagner and his boys. They ascertained that Chiara was going to attend the preview of a documentary about the Resistance, at the Music Park Auditorium. A little before midnight, Chiara saw him walking toward her down one of the paths of the structure designed by Renzo Piano.

  “You could have informed me of your decision,” were the first words that he spoke to her.

  Instinctively, Chiara wrapped the leather jacket that she wore over the long black skirt a little closer to her. Her first reaction, when she saw him, had been one of fear. After all, he was a Mafioso. But Sebastiano had a mild expression on his face, along with the smile that she had always found so irresistible. Chiara understood that he would never hurt her. She relaxed.

  “You could have informed me that I was going to bed with a Mafioso,” she retorted, in the same tone of voice.

  “Mafioso? What on earth are you talking about it?”

  “Cut it out, Sebastiano. I spoke with Polimeni. He told me everything about you and Samurai.”

  So she’d heard about it. But not from him.

  That had been his mistake.

  There had been no impassioned confession. There had been no anguished soul stripped bare. There had been no heartfelt sincerity. Polimeni had got there first. And Chiara no longer trusted him.

  “I was going to tell you all about it.”

  “When?”

  “When the time was right.”

  “Well, now it’s too late. I don’t think we have a lot left to say to each other. As far as I’m concerned, our affair ends here.”

  Sebastiano drew close to her. She recoiled suddenly. So she was afraid of him now. For a moment, for a brief moment, Sebastiano was tempted to open his heart to her. Confide to her the agony that had dug, and dug, and dug into him over the past few days.

  Chiara, I’ve done horrible things, but it was nothing but the revolt of a slave. I have obligations, but in time I’m pretty sure I can get out of them. I only have one dream: to take back my own life. I’m not a bandit. And I’m going to be able to prove that. To you and to everyone. There has to be another way. There has to be a way to break the chains.

  That’s what he would have liked to say to her. Finish off that one last deal, wait for Samurai to get out of prison, and then . . . go away, start a new life.

  I love you. Let’s leave all this behind us. It’s just you and me, a boy and a girl. Help me to get out of this messed-up life of mine. Help me.

  But it was too late. He’d missed his chance. And Chiara . . . Chiara wouldn’t follow him. Chiara would never follow anyone. Only herself.

  And so he recovered from the fleeting moment and confronted her, decisively.

  “Chiara, we have an agreement.”

  “No agreement, Sebastiano. I don’t make deals with the Mafia. No questionable companies are going to work for the jubilee. And your name is at the top of the list.”

  “It’s not as simple as that, believe me.”

  He stared at her for a long time, in total silence.

  You think you can govern Rome without me? Without us? Then you’re kidding yourself, sweetheart. The time when politics was capable of laying down the law is over. Are you planning to exclude me? Let me tell you how that will go, my poor foolish Signorina “I’ll Do the Deciding.” You get rid of me and Rome will grind to a halt. You won’t be able to lift a finger, in this blessed city. Every construction site will stop working, and you’ll have to deploy troops to guard them. But however many men you put in the field, we’ll always have one more man than you do. And do you want to know why? Because this world, and this city, is full of desperate men. People ready to sell out their mother for ten euros. And we have plenty of money, mountains of cash, Chiara. Unlike you, you who have to keep careful track of the budget, follow the rules, tiptoe around restrictions and argue legal quibbles. You want to exclude me? The Roma camps will burn. The outskirts of town will explode. The buses will stop running. The metro will grind to a halt. The taxi drivers will occupy the streets and traffic will back up. The city patrol cops will look the other way. Apartments will be looted. The ultras on the stadium curves will go wild.

  “This means war, Chiara. A war where no prisoners will be taken.”

  “Are you challenging me, Sebastiano? There’s nothing I like better than a challenge. Let’s see how it goes.”

  He watched her walk away, and did nothing to stop her. She climbed into her government-issued car. She didn’t turn around. War, devastation, extermination. It was Samurai speaking through him.

  XVI.

  APRIL 2ND–9TH

  Saints’ Days: St. Francis of Paola, the Fire Handler,

  Good Friday, St. Isidore the Laborer, Easter Sunday,

  Easter Monday, St. John the Baptist de la Salle,

  Saint Amantius of Como, St. Maximus the Confessor

  INFERNETTO. APRIL 2ND. AFTERNOON.

  They met at the usual place, the hovel in Infernetto, an illegal building, completely not up to code, a room with a sink, a bidet, a chair, a sofa, and a swayback bed. Scopino rented it out as a sex parlor to a ring of Nigerian whores, he worked out his union negotiations there, he used the back to store spare parts for the compactor trash trucks and street sweepers that he would steal from the waste management authority and then sell back to the waste management authority at twice market price. A clever guy, Scopino. It was Samurai who had put that obese fifty-year-old with the buzzard breath in charge of AMA—the city-owned waste management authority. Him, a couple of his brothers, and most important of all, a small army of cousins. It was a daisy chain of a family that, all on its own, controlled all the union representatives. More or less all of the acronyms. A family that only spoke one language.

  Sebastiano took great care not to shake the filthy hand that was held out to him, and he handed Scopino a stack of five-hundred-euro banknotes wrapped in a black garbage bag.

  “Don’t go to the trouble, you might get a headache. It’s fifty thousand,” Sebastiano told him.

  The guy grinned, baring an arc of rotten teeth.

  “That’s a nice chunk of cash. What do you need?”

  “You need to bury Rome in its own shit.”

  “That can be done. You just need to tell me how much shit you need.”

  “All of it. For a whole week I don’t want to see a single truck collecting trash inside the beltway. People should have to wear surgical masks when they leave home, and slalom around the rats. And on Easter Sunday, I want the pilgrims in St. Peter’s Square to have to wear galoshes.”

  “Got it. We’ll give them a nice fat strike.”

  “It’s none of my business what you do. I just want results.”

  “You’ll see, I’ll make you happy. There’ll be so much garbage that if they want to leave home, they’ll have to call in the army with bulldozers. When do I start?”

  “Tonight.”

  “That might be a problem.”

  “The word ‘problem’ doesn’t exist.”

  “It was just a figure of speech.”

  “That’s better.”

  Sebastiano pulled a map out of his jacket pocket, with all the districts, or Municipi, of Rome, and opened it in front of Scopino. He started circling them in sequence.

  “You’ll start from here,” he said, pointing at the VIII district, Ostiense, “and then continue with the X, Castel Fusano, Acilia, Ostia, the XI and the XII, Gianicolense and Portuense, and then you’ll cut north, Aurelio, Trionfale, Prati, Della Vittoria. Then, you’ll complete the circle by heading back south, with the III district, Montesacro, the IV, Tiburtino and Pietralata,
San Basilio, the II district, Nomentano, and then . . . ”

  “And then,” grunted Scopino, “we finish up with Parioli, Pianciano, Trieste, Salario, and that fucking historical center.”

  “Exactly.

  “Nice. It looks like a game of Risk.”

  Sebastiano stared at him with commiseration. He folded the map back up and put it away in his jacket pocket. Then he got back in the car and rolled down the window.

  “This isn’t a game, Scopino. Remember that. I don’t want to see a fucking single garbage truck, or a single fucking trashman out in the streets.”

  He put the car in reverse and in a cloud of dust left behind the castle and the ogre inside it. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. He still had a couple of hours.

  VIA PRENESTINA. APRIL 2ND. AFTERNOON.

  Stecca was waiting for him at a car wash on the Via Prenestina, in the shadow of the highway overpass, not far from the offices and bus parking yard of the ATAC transit authority where, officially, he worked in the accounting offices. But where he was actually a full-time union representative. Stecca played the same role at ATAC, the city-owened public transit company, that Scopino played at AMA, the waste management authority. And if it hadn’t been for his wiry physique, his hangman’s build, you would have said he was yet another one of the trashman’s many cousins. An identical anthropological type, a member of the same genus of parasites. The kind that you’ll stumble across wherever there’s so much as a single euro of public cash to ransack. A good-for-nothing who would therefore stop at nothing. He too had been carefully recruited by Samurai, plucked from the thousands of his fellow employees, back in the good old days, when Jabba hired staff for the city-owned authority by the hundreds. With the adding machine of consensus and the percentages of returns on investment flowing back to the city government in the form of slush funds. After all, who really gave a damn about that ramshackle old company that lost hundreds of millions of euros a year? They had even found a lovely name for that merry-go-round, borrowing it from the English. The spoils system.