The American Page 23

  I looked about. There was nothing. The thick snow blanketed the world and muffled any sound. There was not the slightest breeze.

  ‘Why do you look about you?’ Ingrid asked in that singsong accent of her parental land.

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied, but my ill ease was evident.

  She laughed and said, ‘There are no wolves in the woods so close to the cities.’

  Two hours’ drive was not, in my book, close; still, I let it pass.

  We reached the shoreline of the lake. There were indistinct animal tracks going out across the ice. Ingrid announced they were a snow-hare’s. Those beside them were a man’s. A hunter, she decided. But the hare was heading out on to the ice and the footsteps were heading in.

  I spun round. There was no one, but a low branch dipped and a thick rug of snow slid from it. I pushed Ingrid down into the snow. She grunted, winded. I lay beside her and heard the crack of a bullet. It might have been a bough snapping under the weight of winter but I knew it was not.

  I pulled my Colt out of my parka and cocked it. It was a hunter for sure, but he was not after small game. I bobbed up and down once. There was a crack from the trees. I pinpointed the spot from the drift of blue smoke, almost invisible in the winter air. I rubbed snow into my woollen hat, edged up until I could just see over the snow and pumped three shots into the darkness under the tree. I heard a muttering groan then a sliding noise as if I had shot a toboggan. More snow fell off the tree.

  We waited, Ingrid gathering her breath but losing her wits.

  ‘You have a gun,’ she murmured. ‘How do you have a gun? Why should you carry such a weapon? Are you a police officer? Or . . .’

  I made no reply. She was busy thinking. So was I.

  I stood up, slowly, and walked towards the man. He was slouched forwards in a drift of snow, his body deep in the white softness. I kicked at the sole of his boot. He was dead. I grabbed his collar and turned him over. I did not recognise him.

  ‘Who is he?’ Ingrid blurted out.

  I fumbled at his buttons and rummaged in his clothing. In his breast pocket I found a military identity pass.

  ‘He is a shadow-dweller,’ I replied, thinking of the trolls and goblins. It was the first time I used the phrase: since then, it has always seemed so appropriate.

  ‘He is not dressed like a hunter. Why is he alone? Hunters always go in pairs, for safety.’

  Hunters always go in pairs, for safety. In that she was surely right. He might not be alone. I removed the bolt from the man’s rifle and tossed it far into the trees.

  ‘Go for help,’ I instructed her. ‘Call the police.’

  There was no telephone in the dacha. She would have to drive to the village six kilometres away. I needed her Saab. She set off, stumbling up the track we had made through the snow. I shot her just the once, in the nape of the neck. She twitched in the snow, her blood staining the white fur of her coat collar. She looked at a distance like a shot snow-hare.

  At the dacha there was another man, standing by a black Mercedes-Benz sedan. He was holding an automatic pistol but he was not on the alert. The bleak winter and the snow-covered trees had prevented him from hearing our shots. I felled him easily with a bullet in the ear, removed the clip from the Colt and reloaded it. I then took my holdall and few belongings out of the house, smashed the two-way radio in the sedan and removed the distributor cap from the engine, burying it deep into the snow just in case there were others about. I then drove off.

  I admit to crying on the drive to Stockholm, not only from sorrow but also from the realisation of my stupidity. It was a lesson well learned, but at a cost.

  And now, I admit, I should like to stay here, in the Italian mountains, in a little town where my friends are loyal, the wine is good and another young woman loves me and wants me to linger.

  Yet my safety is at jeopardy. The shadow-dweller has come here. I should not want Clara to follow Ingrid into the short but drastic catalogue of my expediencies.

  In Pantano, in the village piazza, there is a pizzeria, the Pizzeria la Castellina. They serve, I consider, the best pizza in the whole valley, perhaps in all Italy. One eats at tables on a patio overlooking a garden of rose bushes and fruit trees. Upon the tables are placed simple oil lamps and a candle in a pot beneath an earthenware saucer containing perfumed oil. This keeps the midges and moths away.

  Usually I go alone, exchange a few words of greeting in broken English with the owner, Paolo: he shows me to the same corner table on the patio. I habitually order calzoni alla napoletana and a bottle of Bardolino. This is a man’s wine.

  Tonight, however, I have brought Clara. Dindina has left, quit her classes and the town. We do not know for where exactly. To the north. She has taken up with a young man from Perugia who drives a Ferrari 360 Modena and sports a solid gold Audemars Piguet wristwatch. He has given Dindina an old but servicable MGB. And so she has departed the university, renounced the sisterhood of the whorehouse in the Via Lampedusa, gone out of our lives. Clara declares she is glad, but I suspect her joy camouflages a bittersweet envy. I am mightily relieved, for it places her beyond the range of possible contact with the shadow-dweller.

  I park the Citroën beside the village fountain. On the wall above is a pre-war Fascist slogan, the lettering now barely visible. It states something about the value to the soul of working in agricultural employment.

  Clara is wearing a tight, white skirt and a loose blouse of maroon silk. Her shoes are low heeled. Her hair is tied back by a simple bow of white ribbon. Her skin radiates youth and health: I feel old by her side.

  Paolo greets us at the door. I can tell from the look on his face he is surprised to see me accompanied by a girl many years my junior. He thinks she is a whore. He is, of course, half right, but I never think of Clara as such: that she works part-time in the bordello in the Via Lampedusa is irrelevant. I regard her as a young woman who likes to be with me, who likes an older man, at this stage in her life.

  We are shown to my usual table and place our order. The lamp is lit and we are brought a dish of funghi alla toscana and a bottle of Peligno Bianco. The little dish of hot aromatic oil is placed over its tiny candle burner. Looking up, I see bats weaving in the near night, snatching insects attracted to the lights from the dark universe of the air. Taking the first mushroom from the dish I smell and then taste the fresh oregano with which the food is sprinkled.

  It is the middle of the week. There is only one other table occupied. Paolo, a sensible host, has seated the other party of three men and two women at the far end of the patio. He deems it best the elderly Englishman and his Italian enchantress should be alone to talk of love and rub knees beneath the red tablecloth.

  The antipasti eaten, Paolo’s daughter brings out our main pizza course: we have both ordered pizza quattro stagioni. The pizza is divided into quadrants: mozzarella and tomatoes in one, fried button mushrooms in another, parma ham and black olives in the third and sliced artichoke hearts in the last. Over the tomatoes is sprinkled more oregano and over the mushrooms fresh chopped basil. I request a second bottle of wine.

  ‘The four seasons,’ Clara says.

  ‘Which season is which?’

  Clara looks at me in silence for a moment: this is not a puzzle which has occurred to her before. She thinks before answering.

  ‘The tomatoes are summer. They are like the red setting sun. The fungus is autumn. They are like dead leaves and you find this in the autumn in the woods. The ham is winter when we cure such meat. The . . .’ She does not know the word. ‘. . . carciofo is spring. It is like a baby plant opening.’

  ‘Brava!’ I congratulate her. ‘Your imagination is as good as your English. The word you did not know is artichoke.’

  I refill our glasses and we begin to eat. The pizza is hot, the oil warm on the tongue. We do not speak for some minutes.

  ‘Tell me, Clara: if you were to become suddenly wealthy, what would you want to buy?’

  She considers this.


  ‘You mean like Dindina?’ she asks.

  I detect a tarnish of envy in her words.

  ‘Not necessarily. Just come into some money.’

  ‘I do not know. It is not to happen so I think nothing of it.’

  ‘Do you not dream of being rich? After you have graduated from the university?’

  She looks up at me over her plate. The light of the oil lamp catches in her hair, the sheen bright and sudden like tiny electricity.

  ‘I dream,’ she admits.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of many things. Of being rich, yes. Of living in a fine apartment in Rome. Of you . . .’

  I wonder if she adds myself as an ingredient for the sake of decorum or because it is the truth.

  ‘What do you dream of me?’

  Before she answers, she sips her wine. As the glass lowers, I see her lips are moist and know they are cool.

  ‘I dream we live together in a foreign city. I do not know where this is. Maybe America . . .’

  They always dream of America. The British dream of Australia as their escape, or New Zealand; the Chinese of Canada and California; the Dutch dream of South Africa. Yet the Italians and the Irish dream of America. It is built into their blood, into their national psyche. Little Italy, the West Side, Chicago . . . Ever since these mountains were drained of entire populations in the bad years of the early twentieth century, America has been the land of opportunity where the sun shines more gently than in Italy, the money holds its value and the streets are paved, if not with gold, then at least not with pavé blocks which jar a bicycle and quickly loosen every self-tapping screw in a Fiat.

  ‘What do we do there? In this dream America?’

  ‘We live. You paint. I swim and maybe teach children. Sometimes. Other times I write a book.’

  ‘Would you be a writer?’

  ‘I should like it.’

  ‘And are we married in your dream?’

  ‘Perhaps. I do not know. This does not matter.’

  I cut into my pizza. The knife is serrated and slices easily through the tough crust at the rim.

  This girl, it occurs to me, is in love with me. I am not just a client to be humped in the Via Lampedusa, a source of income, a means of paying the rent and the tuition fees.

  ‘You are my only one,’ she declares quietly.

  I sip my wine and study her by the subdued flame of the lamp. In the rose bushes cicadas are grating their evensong.

  ‘I go to the house of Maria but not for other men. You are just my one. Maria understands. She does not make me do other business. And now Dindina has gone to her man from Perugia . . .’

  I am touched by this girl’s naïve honesty, her innocent declaration, her keeping herself for me.

  ‘How long has it been so?’

  ‘Since just after I first met you.’

  ‘But I do not pay you much,’ I remark, ‘not after Dindina has her share. How have you made ends meet?’

  Clara does not understand the phrase and I have to put it in simple terms, avoiding idiom. She understands then.

  ‘I do some other jobs. I look after a baby in the afternoons. Not every day. I type for a doctor. Letters in English. And an architect. In the evenings. Because I know English a little—this is because of you. You teach me so much.’

  She reaches across the table and touches my hand with the tips of her fingers. There are tears in her eyes, glistening in the yellow lamplight. I take her hand in mine. Suddenly, we are lovers at a quiet table in a little pizzeria in the mountains. Behind her, a tree shifts softly in a night zephyr. The peaks of the mountain are darker against the night.

  ‘Clara, do not cry. We should be happy, out like this.’

  ‘You never bring me here before. This is a special night. Before we always go to the Pizzeria Vesuvio. In the town. Via Roviano. It is not a place like this. And I love you, mister . . .’

  She lets go of my hand, sobs briefly and presses a handkerchief to her cheeks.

  ‘I do not know your name.’ There is such misery in her voice. ‘I do not know where your home is.’

  ‘My name . . . Yes,’ I muse, ‘you do not know it.’

  I have to be careful. One slip could ruin everything. Although it is, I admit to myself, a very long shot, it may be she is not just a pretty student who fucks, types and babysits: maybe she has been bribed to discover who I am, to winkle me out of my shell.

  I had heard that the polizia had raided the bordello a while back: rumour had it, according to Milo, a senior police officer caught a dose there and the bust was a revenge. They questioned all the girls present about their johns. Could Clara have been one of them and open to suggestion or blackmail, a bit of information in exchange for the tearing up of the rapsheet?

  Gazing at her now in the soft lamplight, her eyes still glittering with suppressed tears, I do not believe she can be a stoolie and I pride myself on my judgment of character.

  Yet I cannot bring myself to tell her the truth although I am sure, at this moment, I can trust her. Her love is as good a guarantee as there could be and I should like to tell her about myself, share the past. (The luxury of a soul companion has never been afforded me as it is to other men.) Yet, I have to consider I am old enough to be her father and, should she run off one day with a handsome young buck in a BMW, my secret would be out and my future blown to smithereens.

  Beyond these excuses which I may be fabricating to defend myself, erecting a coward’s enclosure, a bachelor’s barricade, there is one other which overrides the rest. If I tell her even a smidgin of the truth, and the shadow-dweller finds her, discovers she knows something he might value . . . It does not bear the thinking.

  ‘Maybe you do not give me your name or say where you live because you have a wife,’ she almost whispers, a catch in her throat.

  This is not so much an accusation as a fear being aired.

  ‘I have no wife, Clara. Of that I promise you. I have never been married. As for my name . . .’

  I want to tell her something, give her a name she can use. Despite myself, I am in love with Clara. To what degree I dare not attempt to assess. It is worrying enough that love exists at all.

  ‘As for my name,’ I repeat, ‘you can call me Edmund. But this is just between you and me. I do not want others to know this. No one at all. I am an old man now,’ I vindicate myself, ‘and old men like their privacy.’

  ‘Edmund.’

  She says it so softly, testing it on her tongue.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I say, ‘in a week or so, you may visit my apartment.’

  She is radiant now. Her tears are evaporated and she smiles with a warmth I have not experienced for many, many years. She holds her glass out for more wine and I lift the bottle.

  ‘Have you painted new butterflies, Edmund?’ she asks with a smile, testing the name again as the empty pizza plates are taken away by Paolo. He winks surreptitiously at me as he bends to flick breadcrumbs from the tablecloth.

  ‘Yes, I have. Just yesterday. Vanessa antiopa. It is very beautiful. It has chocolate brown wings with a yellow border, the colour of cream, and along the border there is a row of blue spots. I shall paint a copy for my clients in New York and you shall have the original. When we meet next time.’

  Paolo comes back: he has, he announces grandly, a surprise for the joyful couple. Clara claps her hands together with delight as the two tall stemmed glasses are placed before us. Paolo also puts glasses of Marsala on the table.

  ‘Budino al cioccolato!’

  Clara takes a spoonful of the dessert. I follow. It is smooth and rich and both sweet and tart simultaneously. The bitter coffee and the sugary blend of egg yolks, chocolate and cream complement each other.

  ‘This is very wicked,’ she says, holding up her spoon. ‘The devil makes this. For lovers.’

  I smile at her. I can tell she wants to make love. This has been a happy evening for her and I am glad I was the bringer of her gaiety.

  ‘Why have you never ma
rried a lady?’ she asks suddenly, a dusting of grated chocolate on her lips. She hopes to catch me off-guard, but I am too wily for such a ploy.

  ‘I have never been that in love,’ I tell her, and it is so good to tell her a truth.

  The ammunition is packed in silica gel inside the little round tins in which one purchases fruit drops. They are produced by Fassi, the confectionery manufacturers in Turin and could be custom-made for smugglers. Each is simplicity itself to reseal as they are merely closed with sellotape. Twenty rounds will fit in each container: the silica gel is not to prevent dampness, which is not a problem, but rattling. The explosive shells I put in tins with red cherries printed upon them: I like the symbolism. The rest are in lemon-flavoured. I have not eaten the sweets. I do not like such sugary concoctions. I have flushed them down the lavatory.

  The case for the gun is no more difficult. I drive for the day to Rome. I have several matters to attend to there, one of them being the purchase of a Samsonite briefcase: I recall my client mentioning a vanity case but decide against this possibility. If I have to carry it to our meeting, I will look out of place. Casual observers will remember, under skilful questioning, the man with the lady’s luggage. A Samsonite briefcase can be carried unobtrusively by either sex, and they are so popular the world over they draw no attention. Once the status symbol only of the high-flying businessman, they are now used by clerks, lingerie and double-glazing salesmen, even schoolboys, and they are ideal for my need. The polycarbonate shell is tough, the handle strong and the combination locks sturdy and tamperproof. The hinge runs the entire length of the case, the internal pockets fold flat and the lid fits into a groove in the base, making the prising up of the lid almost impossible and the interior reasonably waterproof. A thin smear of mustard in the groove also fools the explosives and cocaine sniffing machines or spaniels.

  I do not have to be afraid of X-ray machines: my pretty client told me as much. Yet I like to make a traditional job of such a case. It is a matter of pride. From a photographic shop off the Piazza della Repubblica, I purchase half a dozen film protection bags: from a haberdashery-type store nearby, I buy several packets of hooks and eyes such as are used in the straps of brassières.