The Night of Rome Read online

  “You asked to see me,” Polimeni said softly, breaking the enchantment, “and I hardly think it was just to sing me the praises of Pope Francis . . . ”

  “Ah, you secular humanists, all of you so captivated by Francis. There are times when I think he’s more popular with you than he is with his own flock. But he’s a great fisherman for souls. He’s gradually bringing you all back to Mother Church . . . one at a time . . . all of you just like St. Paul, thunderstruck on the road to Damascus.”

  “Well, now, let’s not exaggerate. Let’s just say that for once you’ve chosen the right pope.”

  “Ratzinger was the true revolutionary. You never understood him. He was too subtle.”

  “Rome wouldn’t have stood for two Germans, Giovanni.”

  “Are you referring to the mayor?”

  “Look, I’m on his side. If he’d only learn to listen, though . . . anyway, you know my views. This collaboration between us can’t exist. We’re too different. We’re all aiming for the absolute, and in the end . . . ”

  “Listen to you. You’re a high muck-a-muck from a party that springs out of the union of Communists and priests. A little consistency, a sense of tradition.”

  “A high muck-a-muck. I’m just a retiree. They threw the report on the state of the party in Rome right in my face.”

  “What else did you expect?”

  “They don’t know how to listen. They’re young, and arrogant, and . . . ”

  “When we were in our thirties we didn’t know how to listen either, Adriano. And we hated old people.”

  “But we respected them.”

  “That was lip service we paid them.”

  Polimeni heaved a weary sigh. He was right. He was too damned right. He’d objected when what he should have been doing was studying and learning, and he’d bowed his head, like everyone, when he should risen up in protest. And now he was paying the consequences.

  “All right, I get it. Let’s get to the point now.”

  Giovanni handed him the sheets of paper and bit into a mini-pizza.

  “Linari never disappoints . . . Take a look at these papers . . . ”

  Accounts. Abbreviations. A letter S circled repeatedly in red. Names of companies linked to the construction of the metro C line. Matching abbreviations that referred to the IOR. And it all flowed back to that S circled in red.

  “Let me tell you a story, Adriano.”

  Giovanni told him about Don Paolo. About the anguish he felt at having failed to guess in what depths of despair that young soul had been plunged. The suicide had been duly hushed up, but Giovanni still carried that burden in his heart. It was also in part to honor his memory that there could be no shenanigans. And that’s why he badly needed Adriano’s help. He made passing reference to the visit paid him by Sebastiano Laurenti. He delved into the topic of corruption in the Vatican, the role played by Monsignor Tempesta, the mandate that he’d been given by the pope, the danger that this extraordinary jubilee might unleash the worst sorts of appetites. The ex-senator began to attribute clearer meaning to the abbreviations. He summoned that old and ruthless mental clarity that had led many to compare him to the most ruthless and bloodthirsty Stalinist inquisitors.

  “This jubilee is going to be different from the others, Giovanni. Your pope wants it to be . . . scattered among all the cities . . . it might not even be such a big deal.”

  “How many pilgrims are going to come to Rome, in your opinion?”

  “How many? . . . two, three million . . . ”

  “The pope agrees with you.”

  “There, you see?”

  “But I had some serious estimates drawn up.”

  “And . . . ”

  “The very minimum number is thirty million. I think at least forty.”

  Polimeni nodded in surprise. Giovanni was a pragmatic man, no different than him. He wouldn’t have ventured such a spectacular estimate if he wasn’t absolutely certain of his numbers. He rummaged through the stack of papers again.

  “Does the pope know about this?”

  “I have carte blanche.”

  “These are stolen documents, and the thief is dead. What do you intend to do with them?”

  “If I knew I wouldn’t be here.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “You need to put the mayor on his guard.”

  “I can arrange a meeting for you.”

  “That wouldn’t be appropriate. You need to take to the field in person.”

  Polimeni laughed bitterly. When Silvio Berlusconi has made his first triumphant entrance into politics, it has been famously described as taking to the field. How many of his youthful comrades, pardon me, friends, would have picked up on the subtle innuendo? Not many, he concluded, disconsolately, very few indeed. In any case, the objective was noble, and for the common good. The likelihood of success: who knows, the world had changed. The alliance that Giovanni was offering him ran the risk of coming off as bucking the trends of history. And yet . . . and yet, he was tempted. If for no other reason than a merely aesthetic consideration: Because to do otherwise would just mean giving up. Not again, not this time.

  “All right. I’ll do my part. But in the meantime, you could freeze these accounts.”

  “I already have,” smiled Giovanni.

  “Good work. Even if you wear a cassock, you haven’t forgotten your old lessons,” Adriano concluded. He was bound to have the last word, and he wouldn’t give up that privilege, even under torture.

  VIA LUDOVISI. OFFICES OF FUTURE CONSULTING. MORNING.

  Sebastiano ended the call and slammed a fist down on the table. Can you believe that priest! To take advantage of the weekend to freeze the accounts had been a masterful move. But in the meantime, countermeasures were called for. If he wanted to operate on Italian soil, he was going to have to have traceable accounts. He’d see to that before the day was out. But then there was the problem of wherewithal. He sent a couple of text messages to London. He called Fabio Desideri and asked him to grant him some more time. He was even affectionate to him: You’ve got all the time in the world, I already told you so, and blah blah blah. He liked him less and less as time went by, but there was nothing he could do about it. At least for right now. During his lunch break, he paid a call on Primo Zero, the director of an outlying branch office of the Craftsmen’s and Artisanal Manufacturers’ Savings Bank, and gave him some good news.

  “Starting next week I need three separate accounts to work on. Make sure you get it done fast.”

  “One week? Sebastia’, I have the Bank of Italy oversight people breathing down my neck cause of a little thing I’m not going to bore you with.”

  “The remittances are perfectly documented. You have nothing to fear.”

  “But it’ll still take a week . . . ”

  Sebastiano decided to put an end to his objections, and was forced to remind him of certain outstanding debts he still had with Samurai, and the corollary necessity of not making their mutual friend lose his temper. The director immediately fell into line. From the Audi that was taking him back to the office Sebastiano put in a call to Chiara Visone. She answered in a hushed voice; she was at a meeting of the commission. This was a crucial session. The matters under discussion were the new regulations governing wiretapping and telephone surveillance. There had emerged, even within the ranks of her own party, unexpected pockets of resistance. Obstacles that stood in the way of approval of a measure that a long-needed restoration of juridical civility made absolutely obligatory.

  He was tempted to tell her that soon they’d see each other again, and where, and in what setting. But he decided that playing on the factor of surprise would redound to his advantage, and so he limited himself to a comradely “break a leg.”

  CAPITOLINE HILL. OFFICE OF MAYOR MARTIN GIARDINO. AFTERNOON.

  The mayor�
�s private study overlooked the Imperial Forums. “The finest balcony on earth!” he was invariably told by everyone who set foot here for the first time. And often when they came back a second time. Martin Giardino was especially proud of the changes he had made in the furnishings, transforming that grim and dusty institutional setting into a bright and airy drawing room.

  “The home of all the Romans! This desk, which was buried under tons and tons of old files, I had it restored, at my own expense. I couldn’t resist the temptation when I heard that it was once the desk of Ernesto Nathan, the great mayor of the early twentieth century, the follower of Mazzini . . . symbolic in a sense, isn’t it? You Romans are so in love with symbols, and you know something? You have every right, Adriano. Every right . . . oh, and the chairs too, the sofa, these paintings . . . every cent paid out of my own pockets . . . Oh, excuse me, an urgent call.”

  Martin Giardino launched himself onto his iPhone. Polimeni heard him turn down a couple of different invitations with fervent conviction. Even in the middle of an intense workday, Martin Giardino found a way to show off what impeccable physical shape he was in, along with his unbreakable optimism. Polimeni found himself sinking into a bit of a bad mood. There was something about the healthy appearance of Rome’s first citizen, and the fact that he instead had started his day with pastries and mini-pizzas, following it up with a generous bowlful of a homemade version of pasta alla gricia. Martin Giardino only made things worse with an ironic comment about Adriano’s waistline.

  “The bicycle, Adriano, the bicycle. Twelve miles a day and you’ll feel like you’ve been reborn . . . or even six, if your . . . what is it you say in Rome? If your pump won’t hold up . . . ”

  “You’re making progress, Martin, very good. Anyway, I prefer pistons. Two pistons, or four, depending on the day.”

  “Because you’re an incurable nostalgic for the old left wing. I find all this cultural resistance . . . inexplicable, yes, just inexplicable.”

  “Martin, please, the environmentalist sermon, no, have pity. I love motorcycles, and I consider your policies concerning the closure of the Imperial Forums right up there with Nero burning the city. Since you’ve become mayor, if you want to get from Piazza San Giovanni to Largo Argentina you need to take a day off work.”

  Martin Giardino broke out into sincere laughter. No doubt about it, this man had his charm. All the same, Polimeni couldn’t spare him a mild dart.

  “You, laughing? You really are making progress.”

  The mayor shook his head.

  “Do you think I don’t know that they call me the German . . . do you think I don’t know that they do everything they can to remind that I’m not a seventh-generation Roman, that I’m an alien in our lovely city . . . a foreign body . . . all they ever do is tell me so, over and over, right here in the party, too . . . do you think that I don’t know that you were the candidate, and that in the primaries . . . ”

  Polimeni put both hands together, as if in prayer. Ah, Martin, Martin. All the nonsense you swallow as if it were the truth. This rumor about his own failure to run for mayor was one of the most venomous fables that the up-and-coming young turks of the party had circulated as a way of discrediting Polimeni. A genuine, colossal piece of horseshit. The problem was that Martin Giardino, suspicious and apprehensive as an ape, had swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker. And now here he was, throwing it in Adriano’s face. Fine: politics has never been an arena for tender souls, but there was a long way from that to outright slander . . .

  “Martin, if you choose to believe that, be my guest. But I’m here as a friend. I don’t have ulterior motives and I have nothing to ask of you.”

  “Well then . . . ”

  Another urgent phone call for the mayor. A new interruption. Martin Giardino was waving his arm in large loops, apologizing for his inability to cut off a conversation that was clearly unwanted, but of some importance.

  Polimeni moved discreetly into the waiting room. A couple of ushers dressed in fancy livery snapped to attention. They recognized him, the aged politico. Obsolete, but you never could tell. Better to stay on his good side. A couple of city commissioners from the old guard stuck their faces in, stared at him in astonishment, then turned to go with a hasty farewell. A couple of high officials of the city constabulary came in, deep in a bitter argument over shifts, vacation time, and retirement, the customary grist of the civil servant’s mill. More council members, both majority and opposition, showed up, looked around, registered, smiled, and withdrew.

  Polimeni couldn’t help but notice the marked “aesthetic” difference between Martin Giardino and the flock of second-rank politicos surrounding him. A homo novus, or new man—in every sense of the term—in the midst of a souk. It was inevitable that the man’s unprincipled, conniving, winking, disingenuous surroundings should react badly, as if in the presence of an invading barbarian. We gaze upon him with suspicion, and he perceives that feeling. He must feel a little lonely. Malgradi had offered him a shoulder to lean on. And Giardino was in desperate need of allies. Still, there was a great deal to be commended in his obstinate determination not to allow himself to be Romanized. And perhaps, he told himself, just maybe a whiff of something new could only prove helpful, salutary for Rome. Perhaps, with all his shortcomings, Martin Giardino really can offer some hope. And maybe, there were topics that could be discussed in those rooms where even the walls had ears. And therefore, when the mayor stuck his head in to discuss the matter, he told him that perhaps they could find a time for a less formal chat, and invited him to dinner.

  And, to his great surprise, Martin Giardino accepted.

  VIA LUDOVISI. OFFICES OF FUTURE CONSULTING.

  LATE AFTERNOON.

  They’d all shown up. Incredibly punctual, Sebastiano noted, as he watched them batten down on the light aperitif and snack he’d had arranged at the center of the long oval table in the conference room. Shrimp toasts, crabs on a cracker, Mondragone mini-mozzarellas, gingersnaps, fruit cocktails, and Campari Orange drinks. Watching them scarf down the food as if there were no tomorrow and they didn’t have serious matters to discuss in a few minutes was a spectacle at once revolting and deeply instructive. A little bit like watching one of those documentaries on the savage eating habits of lions or crocodiles. The way they wolfed food down told you everything you needed to know about their basic nature. Which surprised him every time he was brought in touch with it, even though he always thought he knew all there was to know.

  Jabba had overturned the tray of shrimp toast onto the cobalt-blue file marked “Public Works Contracts.” Malgradi was sucking Campari through a straw, making the sound of a sink draining or a toilet flushing. Mariani was visibly in the throes of his usual chemical hunger, and he was simultaneously chomping down on cookies and mini-mozzarellas.

  “Sebastia’, we can start the council meeting, what do you say?” barked Malgradi, bursting into laughter.

  Of course, the “Council.” The real one. The smoke-filled room where the fate of Rome was decided. Sebastiano looked around at them one more time as they finally took their seats around the table, with a sensation that was a mixture of contempt and contentment.

  Malgradi, Jabba, Mariani.

  Majority, Opposition, Party of Builders.

  The government of Rome.

  They were all there. And there could be no doubt that democracy worked more efficiently when it only involved three voices. Excuse me, five voices, if you counted Samurai, temporarily away, and he, who served as Samurai’s proconsul.

  “You know the agenda, right?” Sebastiano began. Malgradi took the floor.

  “As you requested, I worked with Jabba over the weekend on a breakdown of the public works for the jubilee. Considering the urgency of the matter, and in contrast to the normal requirement of a pan-European bids process, the decree we’re going to have the German sign calls for an order of direct assignment. The vote
is rock solid. Majority and opposition in total lockstep. Also because with what it costs us to feed those piranhas on the city council . . . ”

  Sebastiano interrupted him.

  “How much are we talking about now?”

  “The foot soldiers, a thousand a month. The chairs of the committees, three grand, even four. That depends. And then there are extra fees for heavy decree orders. Anyway, like I was saying, we have a few idiots from the Five Star Movement working against us, though we’re doing our best to crack that nut. Jabba, if you would, please read the list of projects.”

  Sebastiano stopped him again.

  “Whoa. Take it easy. Who told you that the German will sign without raising objections over the procedure of extraordinary assignment of contracts?”

  “Well, to make sure, I had a couple of bedsheets’ worth of paper written out . . . how is it the good ones put it? Parere pro veritate, as they say about independent expert opinions, but that veritate part might not have much to do with what got written, ha ha ha . . . Yes, anyway, a nice fat expert opinion drafted on a consultancy basis by that friend who’s been at the Ministry of Infrastructure for a lifetime. You know who I’m talking about, don’t you? The one they call Mephistopheles . . . The one who did thirty years of legwork for ministers and members of parliament, on the right and on the left, dazzling them with DPRs, or presidential decree laws, regulations, and public works contract law, and all the other bullshit you can use for these purposes.”

  “I know who you’re talking about.”

  “Well, it cost me fifty thousand, cash on the barrelhead, and fifty more when the decree order is signed. But it’s a bombshell. If we assume that the German does read it, makes it to the end, and understands a few words of it, he’s sure to sign it. And now, if you like, Jabba can tell you about the public works.”