The Night of Rome Read online

  And, naturally, the Fascist comrade Pasquale Pistracchio, better known as Frodo, in homage to Tolkien’s little hero, with an extra sarcastic jab at his decidedly diminutive stature. In the old days of the Idea, Frodo had earned a reputation as a solid, reliable foot soldier. Perhaps not a rocket scientist, but serious, trustworthy, and loyal. Most of all, loyal. For a certain period, he had worked alongside Samurai in the armed robbery line. Not the strategist you’d sit down and work up the details of the plan with, but certainly the guy you’d entrust with standing watch and keeping a lookout on the bank, or even driving the van, certain that you’d find him at the right place at the right time. The kind of guy you could rely upon not to betray you. That’s why he’d been appointed the group’s treasurer. But as soon as the interest of the state had focused on that small band of combatants that had replaced the vague concept of a Cause with the new, assuredly more specific and concrete concept of Cash, Frodo had, to put it in idiomatically Roman terms, “dato,” or vanished in the wind. And with him, in fact, had vanished the cash.

  Having arrived in London after transiting very quickly through the ranks of the IRA, the Irish Republican Army—“Genuine lunatics, Sebastia’, I saw them do things that . . . let’s just drop it”—Frodo had revealed an unguessed-at talent for business. Remarkably skillful at diversifying his investments, he sank roots into the fields of restaurants and catering, fashion, and especially real estate. His marriage to the wan and pallid heiress to an aristocratic dynasty in the outlying regions of the kingdom had thrown open to him the doors of the most exclusive drawing rooms of London. He remained a foreigner, no doubt, but a wealthy stranger who had married well: and that made all the difference. Once he’d established himself, he had worked tirelessly to settle matters with his old Fascist comrades, who, all too understandably, had sworn to take their revenge upon him. He had doled out modest sums of money to the families of his old comrades behind bars, he’d found jobs for those forced to flee the country, given housing to fugitives, and invested small change in businesses that were limping along. Hate had been transformed, first into mistrust, and later to a state of truce, and then peace. Everything seemed to be going well. Frodo was a happy man until one day, returning home at dawn from an orgy in a refined nightclub in Tottenham, he found his two daughters, Trish and Judy, in the company of an elegant gentleman dressed in black.

  Samurai.

  Samurai, with the utmost courtesy, sent the little girls to play in the other room, and asked Frodo to make him a cup of tea. Frodo started raising objections. Samurai interrupted him brusquely. He complimented him on his lovely home, his adorable little girls, his wife, whom he had greeted the night before, even kissing her hand. He praised Frodo’s wise decision to get out of a losing fight in Italy and start over elsewhere. Frodo had shown talent and enterprise, and for that he deserved a just reward.

  Frodo started breathing again. He coughed out a pathetic little speech about the affinities between the Teutonic spirit, which had once captivated them all, the old Fascist comrades, and the noblest fraction of the English population. He declared that the Cause still enjoyed many sympathizers both at court and among the aristocrats. He yammered on about a plan to found a new nationalist party. Samurai raised an eyebrow, visibly bored. Frodo brought up the solitary flight of Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s heir apparent who had handed himself over to the British, confiding, mistakenly, in the tacit alliance with the Duke of Hamilton and the ex-King Edward VIII. At this point, Samurai pulled out a revolver and laid it down on a precious marble table.

  “You can save that bullshit for the assholes back in Rome.”

  Frodo turned pale.

  “You said that . . . you mentioned a reward . . . ”

  “The reward is that, if you’ll stop spouting bullshit, you’ll be allowed to live. Everything, of course, has a price.”

  That morning of twenty years ago, half of Frodo’s assets were transferred over to Samurai, who, in his turn, entrusted to Frodo the management of his richest accounts. A profitable agreement for them both. Now that Samurai was temporarily out of play, his role had been taken over by Sebastiano. Whom Frodo, in fact—a different Frodo, erect, sober, in suit and tie—welcomed with all the honors of the house. Including a Port Ellen whisky, aged thirty-six years.

  “This is stuff that costs two thousand pounds a bottle,” he smiled, preening like a peacock.

  Sebastiano declined. Among Samurai’s many teachings, there was abstinence, as well. Frodo resigned himself to drinking alone, and he slugged back half a glass of that precious nectar at a single gulp.

  “Shall we talk about business, Frodo?”

  “Go right ahead, comrade.”

  “I’m not your comrade, and I’m going to have to ask you to do me a favor and keep your mouth shut.”

  Frodo nodded, with a certain exaggerated sarcasm. His attitude suggested: you may act like Samurai, but you aren’t him. So calm yourself down, kiddo. Sebastiano felt the rage rising within him. It had happened before, it kept happening, with increasing frequency. The more time Samurai spent behind bars, the looser his grip became. Fabio Desideri had been a signal, Frodo was a signal. He needed to make a statement with that miserable wretch.

  “In ten days I’ll let you know the details of the new Italian accounts you’ll be operating through, after the ones with the IOR are shut down.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “By tonight I’m going to need five hundred thousand euros in cash. Bills in large denominations, preferably five-hundred-euro notes.”

  Frodo turned pale.

  “Now that might turn out to be a problem, Sebastiano.”

  “Make sure it isn’t. We’ll see you at 6:30 this evening at Roka,” he said brusquely, putting an end to the conversation. Before Frodo had a chance to suggest the traditional visit to the “memorial sanctuary,” the armor-plated cellar room where he kept his beloved Nazi memorabilia. Because, in the end, that idiot, like so many of Samurai’s other longtime followers, really had believed in that swastika bullshit.

  At Roka, at number 37 Charlotte Street, you could enjoy the world’s finest Kobe beef. It was flown into London every day via Japan Airlines. Wagyu black, raised in Hyo¯go Prefecture, in the ancient province of Tajima. Hand massaged and lovingly fed until its final destination as the food of the gods. A dish that ran three hundred pounds, commented Frodo, and then, turning to Alex, added:

  “But of course, these are things you don’t understand.”

  “More than anything else, I don’t agree with them,” she retorted, in a subdued voice.

  Alex was strictly vegetarian. A total dyke whom Sebastiano used for his purposes, which did not include, of course, fucking her. There was a singular tenderness between the two of them, something Frodo found inexplicable. Frodo detested Alex and everything that perverts like her—he couldn’t think of any other word to describe them—represented. That was not the way he felt about the hot babe that Sebastiano had brought with him. Chiara Visone. A piece of pussy to die for. Maybe a little skinny for his tastes, but Frodo definitely wouldn’t have kicked her out of bed. His pale wife wasn’t that great, in comparison. And after all, for fuck’s sake, a man is a man.

  Sebastiano asked Chiara how it had gone with the Board.

  “Like always. The English always claim that they’ve invented the perfect formula to bring together justice and business. They call it ‘doing business justice.’”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Rush the trials through and always find the stronger party to be in the right.”

  “Right!” Frodo exclaimed. “And get rid of judges and trade unions!”

  “I hate talking about politics,” Alex broke in, exchanging a knowing glance with Sebastiano.

  Chiara smiled politely. In a certain sense, she actually agreed with Frodo. But this wasn’t the time or place to admit it. Not for a me
mber of parliament for a left-wing party. And after all, that Frodo was horrible. Alex and Sebastiano continued to exchange glances. What were they communicating? Something that had to do with her, Chiara?

  When the sommelier came to the prestige table that dominated the dining room, Sebastiano ordered a cup of tea, a selection that was greeted by the sommelier with a bow and by Frodo with a disgusted grimace. The short, corpulent Fascist comrade devoted himself to a scrupulous examination of the wine list. Chiara bet herself that he’d choose chille ca costa ’ecchiú—whatever cost the most. And sure enough, Frodo ordered a bottle of the 2006 Châteauneuf-du-Pape Croix de Bois, inevitably making a point of the price.

  “What about the ladies?”

  “The proper accompaniment for a meal in a Japanese restaurant would be sake,” Chiara observed.

  The sommelier’s face lit up.

  “Allow me to recommend our Junmai, an authentic miracle of purity.”

  “Purity is everything,” Frodo jumped in, “that’s what I always used to hear Samu . . . ”

  Sebastiano shot him an angry glance that silenced him immediately. And yet, he’d warned him in advance. No Fascist talk, no allusions, and most important of all, no names. Frodo pretended to have a coughing fit. Alex chuckled. For the rest of the meal, Chiara remained vigilant. She observed, scrutinized, absorbed information. That Pasquale Pistracchio, Sir Pistracchio. A Fascist. A worthy comrade of the Mafioso with whom Sebastiano had chatted two evenings earlier at the exit from the party club. It irritated her to think she was being treated like an idiot. If there was anything to be understood, she was sure to figure it out sooner and clearer than anyone else.

  She’d known dozens of guys like that Pistracchio, in Naples. They’d frequented her father’s law office, her father’s Socialist friends, her father’s social evenings. They were all, officially at least, businessmen, just like that Pistracchio. They handled substantial sums of money. Every so often, one of them disappeared. Sometimes for a very long time. But they always reappeared, eventually. Interchangeable faces of a standard model that were always replaced by new specimens, different and yet identical. Chiara had learned from her father how to keep them at bay, without causing breaks in relations that could lead to unpredictable consequences, and how to make use of them when needed. She was no fool, she hadn’t been born yesterday, and Sebastiano needed to get that through his head. No one becomes a member of parliament at thirty if they haven’t figured out exactly how the world works. They were surrounding themselves with far too many masks. It was up to her to decide which of those masks to drop. But in that scenario, Sebastiano was still an anomalous element, impossible to classify.

  Sebastiano saw he was getting a call. He excused himself and walked away from the table. Alex ordered a second bottle of sake. Sir Pistracchio had a brownish stain at the corner of his mouth.

  “When I was a kid, they called me Frodo,” he confided, between one bite and the next, “you know Tolkien?”

  “That’s a real mystery about you Italians,” Alex jumped in. “Tolkien was an anarchist and a pacifist. He wrote The Lord of the Rings to warn against the dangers of Nazism. And you Italians think of him as being a right winger.”

  “Things aren’t so simple,” Frodo observed, grimly.

  “Excuse me,” said Sebastiano, returning to the table.

  Chiara noticed how pale he was. For no good reason, she laid a hand on his arm. He turned to her with a luminous smile. In spite of herself, she felt a wave of warmth wash over her. Who the hell are you, Sebastiano Laurenti? Alex got up and said that she wanted to smoke a cigarette. She invited Chiara to join her. Chiara followed her out of the restaurant. The evening was cold, but at least it wasn’t raining. Alex rolled herself a cigarette.

  “We can speak English, if you prefer, Alex.”

  “No, I’ll take advantage of the opportunity to practice my Italian.”

  “You speak it beautifully.”

  “Thank you, Chiara.”

  For a while they fell silent. Then Alex burst out laughing.

  “If you’re thinking that I go to bed with Sebastiano, just let me inform you that I’m a lesbian, and I’d be delighted to take you out for a spin. Have you ever been with another woman?”

  Chiara laughed, too. For a while she’d assumed that Sebas­tiano and Alex shared some secret perversion. That at the end of the evening they were going to suggest some kind of threesome. And she’d wondered how she would react. She hadn’t been able to conceal from herself, with a shiver, the idea that it might even be exciting. But no, Alex had been assigned another function. That singular creature was studying her. This was some kind of exam.

  “Alex, let’s just say that if I ever did feel like it, I’d want to be taken out for a spin by you and no one else.”

  And then she added: “I’m a member of parliament for a left-wing party, but in any case, my generation has a very open relationship with sex. In short, it’s your own business who you want to fuck. And desires shouldn’t be repressed.”

  Alex told her about her childhood in Scotland, the drugs and depression that had accompanied her for many long years. Chiara spoke of her own childhood in Naples, her father the notary, the hopes and the force of will that accompanied her still. Alex rolled herself another cigarette. Chiara asked her if she worked for Sebastiano.

  “Let’s just say that I work with him.”

  “What exactly is it that you do for him?”

  “Lots of things. Let’s say I’m his sentinel . . . ”

  “His sentinel.”

  “That’s right. I’m his sentinel in London.”

  “And what is it that does?”

  “The same thing everybody does. Business.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Someone might think this was an interrogation, Chiara.”

  “Someone else might think that you’re trying to figure out what kind of a person I am.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “So you can tell him.”

  Alex sighed.

  “Whatever happens between the two of you, Chiara, don’t judge him too harshly. He’s better than so many others, believe me. And he has really suffered.”

  “Do you mean because of what happened to his father?”

  “Once you get to know him better, you’ll understand that this life he lives isn’t his real one. But I’m not the one who ought to be telling you that.”

  “I like you, Alex.”

  “And I like you. But don’t overdo it. I’m a fragile, horny girl.”

  Just then, the men left the restaurant. It was early, and Frodo wanted more to drink. Alex dragged them to the café at Paddington Station. Chiara was stunned and impressed. One wing of the old building had been converted into a hotel for travelers; another wing housed a nightclub that was noisy, cheerful, and full of music, people, and life. Sebastiano went off into a corner for a new phone call. Increasingly pale. Something was going on. Chiara was eaten alive by her curiosity. When she and Alex went off together to the ladies’ room, Sebastiano confronted Frodo.

  “It’s getting late. Give me the money.”

  “I don’t have it, Seba. Forgive me, but I’m going to need a few days to scrape it together.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “There’s not that much to get. I’ve invested a large sum in certain Asian funds . . . stuff with an incredible return on investment. Put in a hundred and back comes three hundred. Samurai is going to be happy about it, believe me. It’s just a matter of showing some patience.”

  They were sitting on a circular sofa; the seats left empty by the girls separated them. Sebastiano grabbed the fork that Alex had used to lazily spear her pineapple, leaned over toward Frodo, and stabbed him hard in the crotch.

  “But you’re . . . ”

  “Shut the fuck up, or I�
��ll rip your balls off. You have until tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “Fuck, man, I can’t!”

  “I don’t give a damn whether you can or you can’t. Sell your house, sell your car, rob a bank, after all, that used to be your specialty, didn’t it, you little worm? I want that money by eight o’clock or you’re done for. Have I made myself clear?”

  Frodo nodded, drenched in sweat. Sebastiano withdrew the improvised weapon. A small drop of blood oozed down the tines. The girls came back from the bathroom.

  “Pasquale is tired. You ought to understand: he just doesn’t have the physique he used to. Sleep tight, my good friend.”

  In the lobby of the Baglioni, Sebastiano greeted Chiara with a gentle caress and headed over to the bar. He ordered a double malt whisky. Only at exceptional moments did he indulge in alcohol, and this was one of those moments. With the recalcitrant Frodo he’d been forced to resort to drastic methods. And, as always, the excitement that came with the exercise of power was a fleeting moment. It vanished quickly, and in its place an empty sense of nausea settled.

  In Rome things were going badly. The appointment of Polimeni was a very bad piece of news. He was going to need to get Chiara involved, and he didn’t know exactly what moves to make. Alex had sent him a short report via WhatsApp: “C. understands everything. She’s a pure diamond, but go slow with her: one wrong bump, and the diamond will shatter.” Alex too had sensed Chiara’s overwhelming whiff of seduction. But she hadn’t said exactly which diamond would shatter into a thousand pieces. Whether it would be Chiara or Sebastiano. And he still couldn’t have given an exact definition of what it was that he expected from her. Complicity. Or something deeper. He was falling in love. And falling in love was an error.