The Night of Rome Read online

  “Yesterday, a man fell victim to a cruel beating. That man is the director of the Mariani construction site for the metro station in Piazza San Giovanni, just a short walk from here. The reason for the assault is an unpaid debt. Danilo Mariani was forced to turn to loan sharks. He was unable to repay the loan, and that man was punished in his place, but believe me, that means he was punished too . . . ”

  “Why are you telling me this story, Dottor Laurenti?” The priest’s face had become an icy mask. But deep in his eyes, a glitter revealed his extreme attention. Sebastiano decided he liked this man. He had something of Samurai’s inflexible determination. We might even become friends, thought Sebastiano. Or else, excellent enemies. Here was another of Samurai’s teachings: better to fight enemies who are at your level than slimy spineless invertebrates willing to indulge in all sorts of treachery.

  “Mariani, Your Excellency, like many other Roman companies, is involved in work on the metro. And the work is behind schedule because the Interministerial Committee for Economic Planning, which, as you know very well, is a government agency, refuses to release the payments that it is required by law to make. Consider me, at this moment, as an emissary from the healthiest, hardest working part of Rome. If you were to offer your elevated intervention, it might prove decisive. Not only for Danilo Mariani, but for the entire city.”

  “My intervention?”

  Now the glitter had become a gleam of authentic amusement. Something along the lines of: I know that you know, so act accordingly. Sebastiano understood that the time had come to become a street thug again.

  “You know very well, Your Excellency, that the metro project dates back to 1996. The original idea was to join two basilicas that are symbolic of Christianity itself, St. Peter’s and St. John’s, and to do so for the Holy Year of 2000. Today, on the eve of a new jubilee, the construction of this project is an ever greater necessity . . . for us, and for you . . . To say nothing of the fact that unlocking these funds might spare the young life of Danilo Mariani from further retaliation.”

  Giovanni took a lengthy pause before answering. What an immense burden he had taken onto his shoulders. He looked at Sebastiano, considering him with the utmost attention. In his turn, he had asked a few questions. Reckless, ruthless, he had said to himself. The son of an honest man who’d committed suicide over his debts. And yet, Giovanni told himself, a man who knew more than a little something about the human soul, a man not entirely damaged. At times, in the young man’s words—between an allusion and a veiled threat—he thought he’d been able to detect a vein of authenticity. That young man is a typical soul caught between the Angel and Satan. And unfortunately, as is so often the case, it appeared that the Great Seducer enjoyed a considerable advantage.

  “And naturally, you can’t reveal to me the names of those loan sharks.”

  Sebastiano threw his arms wide.

  “Only because I care too much about your safety, Your Excellency.”

  “Have you considered the possibility of filing a criminal complaint with the judicial authorities?”

  “I have more faith in your discernment than I do in human justice. Saving the Mariani company would mean having a great . . . friend in the city of Rome.”

  The two men stood face-to-face for an instant. The bishop with a wandering smile stamped on his handsome face, Sebastiano progressively becoming less and less sure of himself.

  “I thank you for this visit. Truly . . . illuminating. You’ll be hearing from me.”

  After saying farewell, Sebastiano remained in the waiting room for a few seconds. If nothing else, that meeting had swept away any potential fog. The bishop was on the other side. A worthy enemy, but an enemy nonetheless. He couldn’t count on him to get the funds released. Still, Fabio Desideri would have to be paid. He sent a text message to London.

  For the text message he made use of an untraceable SIM card. Even though it was a well known fact that the cops were very actively eavesdropping and surveilling and wiretapping, you wouldn’t believe the number of idiots who every blessed day tumbled into their nets due to sheer excessive talkativeness. And yet, the lesson ought to be clear to one and all: never talk about business on the phone—never, with anyone! Therefore, Sebastiano owned “official” telephones and “safe” SIM cards. He obtained them thanks to Samurai’s longtime friendship with Shalva, a boss in the Georgian Mafia. Even though he was a sidelined player in the bigger games, Shalva was still a person deserving of the utmost respect.

  Samurai really was taking the long view: he knew when and how to strike, and when he decided to make such a move, there was no way out for the designated victim. But he used his power only sparingly, faithful to Machiavelli’s teaching: practice cruelty with overwhelming force, but in one, single, conclusive dose.

  Rather than kill men, it was smarter to make them your friends. Samurai knew how to show clemency, and this knowledge had endowed him with unquestioned prestige. Sebastiano still had a great deal to learn from him.

  But you can’t go on forever as a disciple: sooner or later, you must become a master yourself.

  As he started down the corridor that led to the street he looked around. The young faggot priest who he’d seen trailing along after the monsignor, tail wagging, had vanished now.

  TRASTEVERE. EIGHT THIRTY IN THE EVENING.

  Don Paolo hadn’t waited for him. He’d taken to his heels, in the throes of who knows what phantoms. To each his own. Monsignor Giovanni Daré indulged in a long stroll, and enjoyed the sweet-smelling evening. There is something magical about the Roman spring, and therefore, to a believer, it is divine.

  A cigarette.

  With a vague sense of regret for the irrevocable decision to stop smoking, he lingered on the Ponte Sant’Angelo, captivated by the play of light of an incendiary half moon that was fragmented in the black waters of the Tiber, animating shards of glittering gleams, multiplied by the reflection of the glowing streetlamps.

  Rome, the only place like it. Rome, city of the damned.

  He’d been assigned the duty of piloting a gigantic vessel to safe harbor. The sea was bristling with shoals and dangers, the crew he’d been summoned to command was poisoned with all sorts of ex-cons and jailbirds. He was being asked to be rigid but flexible, well aware that excessive rigor only leads to paralysis, while excessive flexibility leads to a fracturing of the stable body. From this point of view, Rome struck him as the most acute possible metaphor for human nature. Cellini’s Angel had been conceived and executed by a willful, cruel artist, and yet it was, and always would be, Cellini’s Angel. The countless testimonials to human genius with which Rome abounded . . . Credit for all of it, after all, belonged to sodomitic cardinals, brilliant murderers, cruel madonnas, liveried professional killers. Without murders, there would be no art, and without art, there would be no murders. Without evil, no goodness. Without goodness, no evil. In the end, everything boils down to this. The great questions of the Fathers of the Church that inexorably arise again and again, unaltered after millennia.

  Rome, the only place like it. Rome, city of the damned.

  One foot in front of the other, protected by the cloud of his thoughts, Giovanni found himself inexorably filled with pride at his mission. A sin of boastfulness? So be it. The church is a demanding mother. She has equal need of philosopher children and warrior children. Here and now you’re a warrior, Giovanni. Nothing and no one is going to deflect you from your mission.

  At Enzo’s place on Via dei Vascellari, he found his usual little table and a bowl of meatballs with tomato sauce. Giovanni poured the white Castelli wine into two glasses and waved the restaurateur over to join him.

  “They stuck you with a hot potato, looks like,” Enzo said.

  “What do you know about it?”

  “It’s on all the television networks, Giova’.”

  “Is anyone ever going to be able to keep a s
ecret, in this city?”

  “It strikes me we’re not going to be seeing much of you in the months to come.”

  “May the Lord’s will be done.”

  “With the Lord, I can even reason, it’s your little friends that I’m worried about. And you ought to be just as worried as I am.”

  You can say that again, he was tempted to answer him. But he refrained. Enzo’s anticlericalism was the stuff of legend. That was why, in this little family-run restaurant, Giovanni felt completely at home. He used to come dine at Enzo’s as a young man. With Adriano and with Rossana. Sometimes all three of them, other times with one or the other. For so many years, now, though, he’d been coming here all by himself. He started mulling over old memories. Rossana and Adriano. Another lifetime. Another world. Endless evenings spent talking and discussing and arguing with only one objective: how to save the world from itself. They took it for granted that salvation was a commonly shared aspiration. That had been their underlying error.

  “Hey, it seems to me that this evening they gave you all a night out at the monastery.”

  Giovanni looked up when he heard this wisecrack of Enzo’s, and found Don Paolo standing in front of him. He looked chilled. A whiff of sweat had eradicated the faint flowery perfume.

  “Sit down. You disappeared.”

  The young priest took a seat. In his hands he was holding a stiff case, covered with red fabric.

  “Did you follow me?”

  An affirmative nod of the head.

  “Why?”

  “That man . . . Sebastiano Laurenti . . . are you friends? I have to know.”

  “Will you eat something?”

  “I’m not hungry. That man . . . ”

  “I’m done, too. Let’s go.”

  He paid, leaving a generous tip.

  They walked out into the night that was overrun by tourists. A small crowd of drunken girls cut in front of them. A little brunette said something in an incomprehensible language, pointing at the young priest. The girls laughed. Don Paolo, clearly startled, crossed himself. Don’t overdo it, thought Giovanni to himself, His Holiness is giving serious thought to the celibacy of priests. Then he recalled the rumors he’d heard and a smile escaped him. He regretted it instantly. But after all, it’s only human nature. We’re just built wrong. He made a mental note to recite a rosary of repentance. Then he grabbed the young priest by the arm and dragged him down a secluded alley.

  “I’m no friend of Laurenti. That was the first time I’d ever seen him. Will you please just calm down? Do you know each other?”

  “Your Eminence . . . Don Giovanni . . . I . . . he is . . . he’s part of that crowd . . . ”

  “What crowd?”

  “Bad people. I’ve sinned, Father. I’ve had relations . . . ”

  “Listen to me, my son. If you’re going to tell me about Monsignor Tempesta, save your breath. His Holiness has been very clear on this point: Who am I to judge . . . therefore, ego te absolvo, and let’s talk about more serious matters.”

  “I’ve done awful things. Things I’m so ashamed of. I . . . ”

  “That’s enough!” Giovanni snapped.

  But then he repented of this abrupt outburst, too. Don Paolo was a broken twig. In his eyes he glimpsed the same anguish that he’d first guessed at when he was a little boy and his beloved little Sponky, an irresistible mutt, wound up under the wheels of a moped. The dog was dying, and it didn’t understand why. It looked up at the helpless little boy and asked for help that couldn’t be given. Why? Why?

  Impulsively, Giovanni embraced the young priest. He ran a hand through his hair. Don Paolo sank into his arm; little by little the shaking subsided.

  “Are you feeling better, now? You’re absolved. The rest is between you and your conscience. Understood?”

  The young priest nodded. And he put the red cloth case in Giovanni’s hands.

  “In here. It’s all here. These are papers I took from Tempesta. You need to read them. Swear to me that you will. You need to read them before you make any decisions about the jubilee.”

  “Took? What do you mean ‘took’?”

  Don Paolo turned away and lowered his eyes. Took. Pilfered. Stole, then. Ah, this is off to a good start. Giovanni opened the folder. Xeroxes of handwritten documents. Dates. Abbreviations. Numbers. Bank accounts. Deposit slips for IOR, the Institute for Religious Works, better known as the Vatican Bank. Money. The devil’s excrement, nourishment for artists.

  “It seems to me I’m going to have to study these,” Don Giovanni commented, lightheartedly, to lift the gloom.

  Don Paolo nodded.

  “You’ll have to give me a hand. Come to the Vicariate tomorrow morning. We can study together.”

  Don Paolo didn’t reply. He grabbed his hand, before Giovanni could stop him, and planted an impassioned kiss on it, and then hurried off at a brisk step.

  “Paolo!”

  The young priest broke into a run. Giovanni shook his head. An elderly couple stood looking at him, disapprovingly. They must have witnessed the scene, and who can say what they had imagined. Giovanni walked toward them, fierce-faced.

  The couple took to their heels, muttering insults.

  What about the evil that we carry inside ourselves? The evil that shows us sin even where it doesn’t exist? Shall we talk about that?

  He returned to the Vicariate in the throes of grim reflections. His first day in charge of contracts and works for the jubilee was concluding in an extravaganza of alarm bells. Before dropping off to sleep, he read a few verses from an anthology edition of The Geography of Lograire and Cables to the Ace by the Reverend Thomas Merton. Merton had been a brilliant secular intellectual, until he converted to Catholicism after an apparition. A Jesuit, like Pope Francis, and a poet. A looming, massive figure who, from high on a hilltop, fired off powerful, sinewy, poetic homilies in the vain illusion that he might somehow save mankind from itself.

  In those very same minutes, in his special regime cell as a prisoner under Article 41-bis, Samurai was studying the fourth satire from the first book of Juvenal’s Satires. A fisherman has caught a turbot so enormous that there is no frying pan big enough to hold it. The Senate is called upon to solve the matter, and learned disquisitions ensue on whether and how to slice up the monstrous sea creature. In the end, one senator, as wise as he is a brownnoser, sets forth an opinion that ultimately prevails: let the mother of all frying pans be built, to the greater glory of the emperor. “From this day forth, o mighty Caesar, let potters, too, follow your armed legions.” Samurai mentally prepared his sermon for his next meeting with his lawyer. The message would reach Sebastiano loud and clear: Caesar could not be excluded from such a generous fish. They must at all costs get a seat at the table of the jubilee.

  In the darkness of Rome, Don Paolo hurled himself into the void from a parapet on the Vatican walls.

  A DP CLUB IN THE CENTER OF THE CITY. NIGHT.

  Francesco De Gregori’s voice carried out to the street. He was singing La Storia siamo noi—”We Are History.” Yet another of the standards of the Italian left wing. Even though a fair number of recycled Fascists had adopted it as their own anthem.

  In the narrow street crowded with tourists strolling along looking up, there was a palpable air of excitement. In an incessant toing and froing, the friends of the party—a neologism that had replaced the obsolete and deeply suspect comrades—kept emerging from and walking back into the small door at number 15 on the street, clutching in their hands slender, delicate flutes of Prosecco. A party. Yes, a party to ward off the danger of a funeral. The funeral of the old chapter office of the Italian Communist Party, now a club, to use the neologism. A losing proposition, no matter how you looked at it.

  Either they came up with a hundred thirty thousand euros to get out from under the debt of who knows how many months of back rent. Or else th
e chapter, club, call it whatever you want, would shut its doors and goodnight, nurse. Game over. Let History look on. And that History, as the great Poet sang, would be us.

  Climbing out of the bowels of the city center, Adriano Polimeni, former party senator, stopped in at the venerable old fry shop. At his age, fried foods were more or less virulent poison. Still, there are some poisons that cannot be resisted. And fried cod filets fit that bill. He took a seat on one of the rickety folding chairs in the street outside the shop, spread his legs wide, and bit into the crunchy, oily wondrous morsel, assuming the classic turkey position as he did so. His right arm raised to the level of his mouth with the food, his torso angled forward, his left hand carefully tugging shut his tweed jacket, to protect the cashmere sweater beneath. The oil started dripping on the ground with each bite. And Polimeni, chewing slowly, sat there eyeing the party activists as they buzzed with conversation in the street.

  When had he first taken his membership card? It had been 1973. It was a membership in the Communist Youth Federation, affectionately known as the See-Why-Eff. It hadn’t been easy to carry that card. In those days, only donkeys joined the young Communists. It was undoubtedly cooler to consort with the extremists. With them, there was never any shortage of adrenaline, hormones, sheer fun: a rare quality among the self-serious aspiring Communist leadership. Then came a succession of new names, the PCI, or Italian Communist party, the DPS, or Democratic Party of the Left, the DS, or Democrats of the Left, and the DP, or Democratic Party. The party had changed its name, shed its skin, and altered its identity. Everything had been tossed overboard. Literally everything. There was no political plastic surgery it hadn’t been subjected to. But for some strange reason his time had never come.