The Night of Rome Read online

  “I told you, don’t be in such a hurry. The resources? How much can be assigned to the budget?”

  Malgradi made an embarrassed face.

  “Sebastiano, let’s just forget the jubilee of 2000. That budget was 3.5 trillion old lire, which amounts to 1.75 billion euros.”

  “And now?”

  “Now we’re at a level of roughly a billion, including the 500 million for expansion of the transit system. So 500 million for bricks and mortar and 500 million for rail.”

  “I would have expected worse.”

  “Me too. Therefore, we have every reason to be optimistic. And now, if Jabba would care to read us the list.”

  Sebastiano nodded. Jabba put on his reading glasses and dusted a mountain of crumbs off the greasy sheets of paper on the table in front of him.

  “All right then, we have:”

  “Renovation and updating of the railway station of Vigna Clara with completion of the railway circuit out to the Nomen­tana station;

  “Restoration and reinforcement of the quays along the Tiber between the Ponte Milvio and the Ponte Marconi;

  “The establishment of at least five new electric bus lines;

  “Repaving of the street grid with pedestrian areas and partial pedestrian areas along the so-called ‘pilgrimage routes’ in the historical center: Via delle Botteghe Oscure, San Carlo ai Catinari, Via dei Giubbonari, Campo de’ Fiori, Via del Pellegrino, Piazza Vittorio;

  “Special plan for the construction of fifty public urinals;

  “Renovation of the area around the Termini Station . . .”

  “All right, all right, I get it . . . ” Sebastiano cut him off. He spoke to a silent Mariani.

  “What about you all?”

  Sebastiano wasn’t using the royal “you” suitable, as the man once said, only for kings and tapeworms. And anyway, that cokehead hardly deserved it. But Danilo wasn’t just speaking for himself. For some mysterious reason—even though the most obvious explanation is that they didn’t want anything public to do with it—the other major families of Roman builders had chosen him as the spokesman for the consortium.

  Mariani ran his hands through his greasy hair and gave his oracular response.

  “In spite of the crisis, we’ve decided to stick to the 2000 agreement. Which is the same as for the metro C line.”

  “About which, you’d be so kind I’m sure as to remind us of the details,” Sebastiano stared at him with his serpentlike eyes.

  “So, 20 percent goes to Politics, 10 percent goes to Neapolitans and Calabrians to be added to the subcontracts, 5 percent to the technical structures of the city government and the ministry, 2 percent for charity and good works, and . . . ”

  “And?”

  “And 13 percent to Samurai . . . Yes, in other words, to Future Consulting.”

  “Did you say 13 percent?”

  Mariani flashed the faint smile of someone who was wetting their pants.

  “That’s what Samurai got in 2000 and what you’re already getting on the metro, so we thought . . . ”

  “You thought wrong. What’s today’s date?”

  “Monday,” he said, with his lower lip quavering in fear, the big baby.

  “I said date. I didn’t ask what day it is.”

  “It’s the sixteenth. Today is the sixteenth.”

  “Right. So we’ll take 16 percent.”

  “Of course . . . Of course.”

  “And do you know why we take sixteen percent, you idiot? Because without me, payment for the various construction sites is going to remain frozen. And without me, you’re going to wind up in a real shithole, right?”

  Malgradi and Jabba turned inquisitive gazes toward Sebastiano.

  “Those are our businesses.”

  “Of course . . . Of course,” they cried in chorus.

  Mariani, drawing upon God only knows what hidden vein of courage, or perhaps of desperation, decided that the time had come to speak up.

  “Excuse me, Sebastiano, but seeing that we’re talking about the agreement, I wanted to inform you that this morning I was informed, and the other companies were likewise informed, that . . . well . . . that our accounts with the IOR bank were frozen, and so I was wondering how we are supposed to send . . . Yes, that is, what system we’re supposed to use to . . . ”

  Sebastiano extinguished with a glare the flash of uneasiness he’d caught on Jabba and Malgradi’s expressionless faces. And he decided that he owed them no explanation at all.

  “I know. I’m seeing to it in person. This isn’t our problem. In fact, forget about it. When the time comes, I’ll tell you what procedures to follow. And we need to start thinking about a security plan. My sources speak of a flow of more than thirty million pilgrims to Rome. We’ll have to start up security communities especially for this purpose . . . That too is an ad hoc business sector.”

  “Ad what?” asked Danilo.

  “Go on home now. I’ll explain to you tomorrow,” Sebastiano said brusquely, his patience at an end.

  TESTACCIO QUARTER. THE KREMLIN. EVENING.

  Martin Giardino showed up at nine on the dot. Alone and without his bodyguards. In one hand the helmet of his inevitable bicycle, in the other a Jewish pizza from the old baker’s shop in the Ghetto. Polimeni, who was starting to like the German much more than he had, laid out the evening’s menu.

  “Carciofi alla giudia, rigatoni colla pajata . . . ” Polimeni listed the dishes he’d prepared: Fried artichokes, Jewish style, and short noodles with the intestines of an unweaned calf, Rome’s classic pajata.

  “But pajata is against the law,” Giardino pointed out.

  “Wrong. They just made it legal again. And anyway, this pajata comes from Bruno, my longtime butcher. From the indoor market on Via Catania. A Communist, like back in the day. I need to introduce you sometime.”

  “But are you sure . . . ”

  “There are no alternatives. Take it or leave it.”

  “Just a taste.”

  They talked about old books and old love affairs. In the relaxed atmosphere of Polimeni’s home, Martin Giardino seemed like a different man. He’s trying not to give in to the homo politicus that he can feel growing within him, Polimeni diagnosed his guest. He can tell he’s in midstream, he knows that some compromises are going to be inevitable, but he wants to get out with his hands clean. He accepts without blinking an eye an invitation to dinner from a potential adversary because he ardently wishes to make him into an ally.

  Martin told him about the social event he’d turned down for the evening. A group of builders, certainly interested in trying to get some of the work for the jubilee; avoid like the plague that race of goons with their overdressed, over-made-up wives. A high muck-a-muck from the old days and his cohort of Freemasons, in search of an appointment to the board of directors of one of the companies taken over by the municipal administration. Even cultural events were occasions to be approached only with the greatest caution, because you never knew who you might be helping out and who you might be harming, and to think that he’s a guy who’s always loved cultural events and openings and such. In these conditions, it’s a short step to the brink of paranoia.

  When Polimeni looked at the mayor, he was reminded of the young Lucien de Rubempré in Balzac’s Lost Illusions. A talented young man, but incurably provincial. Lucien found a teacher and guru in the aristocratic de Marsay. Could it be that Martin Giardino had found something similar in Malgradi?

  Rome knows how to be cruel, but also welcoming. That axis with the foul Malgradi needed to be severed.

  It was over a malt whisky served in an antique set of metal jigger glasses—a gift from an old English Labour Party friend—that the senator spoke to him, laying all his cards on the table, about the conversation that he’d had that morning with Giovanni Daré. About the construction sites
that had been shut down because of a lack of funds from the Interministerial Committee for Economic Planning, or ICEP. The maneuvering now under way to get their hands on anything that wasn’t nailed down. He told him about his evening at the Democratic Party club. About that Sebastiano Laurenti who had gone to see his friend the bishop and how a few hours later he “had decided to take responsibility” for the debts of the old Communist Party chapter. He described the young man with a very particular dislike and resentment, the reasons for which eluded the mayor, who was surprised at the vehemence he showed. Realizing that he’d overdone it, Polimeni very skillfully steered the conversation to Temistocle Malgradi.

  “What do you have against him? He’s loyal.”

  “Loyal? Malgradi? Do you have any idea where that guy comes from?”

  “His political history is different from ours, but that hardly seems a sufficient reason to discredit him, and after all . . . ”

  “Don’t let him get his hands on the public works for the jubilee, Martin.”

  It seemed that he’d made an impression on the mayor. Maybe it had been his tone of voice, or it might have been his arguments, and certainly the particular atmosphere that had been created must have something to do with it, but he seemed willing to take the warning under serious consideration. For the first time in all the years he’d known him, Polimeni saw him looking undecided, willing to listen to advice. He tried a final lunge.

  “Choose and appoint a special delegate for the public works projects of the jubilee. I don’t know, a sort of city commissioner without portfolio. Exclude from the bids all those lovely companies that have been running the ghost construction sites for the metro. Order all your people to shut the doors in this Sebastiano Laurenti’s face. At least until we have a clear idea what sort of interests he represents, and on whose behalf he’s really acting. Break up the games. After all, that’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

  “That might mean turning the whole party against me . . . ”

  “You can do it,” he told him, looking him right in the eye, “you’re the only one who can pull it off, Martin. Your supposed weakness with the party can become your hidden strength.”

  He walked him to his bicycle; they exchanged farewells like old friends. Polimeni wasn’t sleepy. The night was cold, but the adrenaline was surging in his bloodstream. He ran to catch a cab and asked to be dropped off in the center of town. His last line sounded very much like something out of an American movie. You can make it . . . you alone . . . But who ever said that an ex-senator getting along in years, and who was raised in the school of Togliatti, can’t keep up with changing times? A few minutes later, as he was walking down Via Caetani, where thirty-seven years earlier the dead body of Aldo Moro had been found, he remembered that on that long-ago March 16th, the history of Italy had changed forever. And he, it occurred to him with a shiver, was one of the last ones around to remember it.

  A little after two in the morning, the mayor called Malgradi. Temistocle extricated himself from the slightly humid embrace of the blonde he’d picked up, half an hour earlier, at a discotheque on the Via Cassia, and braced himself to get his balls busted for a while.

  “Ciao Temistocle, am I bothering you?”

  “Not at all, Mayor.”

  “I wanted to tell you that I’ve had an idea.”

  Malgradi put his hands on his balls, in the traditional gesture of warding off evil.

  “Oh, really? Let’s hear it.”

  “Yes, in short, it’s an idea that I know you’re going to support. Because you heard the pope’s words, didn’t you? You’re very familiar with his battle against corruption, of course? In other words, we’re no longer living in the days of that poor wretched brother of yours.”

  “Martin, I have to beg you not even to say his name.”

  “Well, okay, so the idea I’ve come up with, then, is to appoint an extraordinary delegate in charge of the public works for the jubilee.”

  Malgradi opened both eyes wide. The blonde gave him a quizzical glance. Malgradi waved for her to leave the room.

  “Look, Martin, I’m stunned. I don’t know if I deserve such great trust. I think that I’d certainly be a first-rate delegate, but I’d like to make sure you’ve carefully thought through what you’re offering me here. Yes, in short, I wouldn’t want my last name to expose you to . . . ”

  “No, sorry, Temistocle, forgive me. Maybe you’ve misunderstood.”

  “No, no, the only reason I’m saying it is that . . . ”

  “Temistocle, Temistocle, would you just let me speak, if you please? I wasn’t thinking about you as the delegate.”

  Suddenly Malgradi felt his head start whirling.

  “Then who . . . ?”

  “I’m going to appoint Adriano Polimeni. The former senator. I imagine you know him, right?”

  “You bet I do.”

  “And I can also imagine that you can imagine why him. Unlike you, he’s not one of my own men and he isn’t considered to be. Which means that no one could accuse me of Caesarism. What’s more, he has a history in the party, controversial, but crystal clear and clean . . . ”

  “I know everything, Martin. I know it all. And now, excuse me, but I really have to let you go. Maybe we can talk about it in person. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.”

  He ended the call and let himself go to an unrepeatable curse. The blonde came over again. She tickled his earlobe with the tip of her tongue.

  “Not now. In fact, do me a favor, leave me alone. Let me call you a taxi, okay?”

  Now you look at this, this fucking German . . . and what am I going to tell Sebastiano?

  IV.

  TUESDAY, MARCH 17TH–WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18TH

  Saints’ Days: St. Patrick, St. Alexander of Jerusalem

  LONDON.

  Chiara Visone deplaned at Heathrow a little before ten in the morning. Throughout the flight she’d worked on her iPad on the speech she was going to deliver at the next executive board meeting of the party. The question of wiretapping and surveillance was becoming thorny. It was incredible, if you stopped to think about it, but there were still people in the party who felt nostalgic for the terrible years of the Clean Hands investigation, when the nation’s prosecutors had liquidated an entire political class. Errors that ought never to be repeated. But the battle would be harsh, and the outcome still looked uncertain.

  Upon her arrival, she found cold, foggy weather. Waiting for her was a red Jaguar XE with a uniformed chauffeur. They took more than an hour to reach the London Baglioni Hotel. Chiara had just handed over her passport at the reception desk when she felt a hand touch her shoulder. Annoyed, she turned around and found herself face-to-face with Sebastiano. He wore a grisaille executive suit, and carried his overcoat draped over his arm. Next to him was a creature of indeterminate sex, a small, nervous thing, with blonde hair tending toward the ash white, pierced lips and a corona of earrings, ripped jeans and an oversized shapeless coat, a piece of street fashion.

  “I see that you like the Baglioni, too, Chiara. A little old-fashioned, I’ll admit. But I prefer it to the Kempinski, even if that place is more fashionable. All that Slavic glamor depresses me. I’m here on business. What about you? Weren’t you all taken up with the commission?”

  There was nothing fortuitous about that seemingly chance encounter. Chiara’s presence at the meeting of the International Board of Justice and Economy had been abundantly publicized. And Sebastiano was a careful reader of the right news publications. It might be that he really did have business in London, but the real reason for that trip was her. She felt a hint of disappointment. Chiara was well aware of the allure that she radiated. She had been a much doted-upon little girl, her every whim a command, and then she’d gone on to become a young woman mythicized by others her age in her adolescence, immune to the anguish of inferiority complexes. Therefore, it stood to reason that
Sebastiano had to have come for her. The usual foolish little man, wagging his tail at the sight of her regal entrance. At that moment, she found him elegant, well put together, and even handsome. After that night in the Orange Garden, he hadn’t been persistent or annoying, he hadn’t presumed, he’d limited himself to one courteous phone call. But now, London. Yes, decidedly disappointing. There was no reason to display any excessive warmth.

  “The topic was economics and law, and they needed someone with a decent command of the English language. And that’s all.”

  “This is Alex. Alex, this is Chiara.”

  “Hi, Alex.”

  “Hi, Chiara.”

  “Alex is an old friend of mine. She knows all about London. Even more than you, who, as far as I know, lived here for some time. London School of Economics, right? If your other commitments don’t interfere, we could eat together tonight. What do you say, Chiara? Appointment here in the lobby at 6:30 this evening?”

  “Well, it’s a perfect excuse to get free of those intolerable stuffed shirts.”

  And with a smile, she headed off toward her room, inwardly pleased with her response, which had all things considered been lighthearted and nonchalant.

  Sebastiano exchanged a glance with Alex.

  “What do you think?”

  “She’s certainly classy, but . . . ”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know . . . there’s something cold about her.”

  “She’s a woman with power.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I’ll try to find out, Seby.”

  The sign said Real Estate Investors, Ltd., and it enjoyed a somewhat obscene pride of place on the townhouse in Belgravia, in the heart of the most prestigious, and expensive, residential district in the world. This ostentatious claim bore the unequivocal brand of property ownership. As if to say: I own, and I can therefore do as I please. I can even profane the holy sanctuary of ancient lineage with my nouveau riche arrogance. Her Majesty’s subjects could turn up their aristocratic noses just as high into the air as they might care to: only a very few of the elect could afford a haven in that neighborhood where property values sailed along at forty thousand pounds sterling per square foot. Sheikhs, Indian, Chinese, Malaysian, Thai, and Pakistani businessmen, and even a few of their Brazilian counterparts, Russian Mafiosi, and movie stars, of course.