The American Page 25

  I have a horrid and insidious feeling I shall not see him again. What this means, I cannot tell. He might be able to divine it. I do not feel I am going to die: it is not time for me to turn, in panic, back to the church and stutter out a lengthy confession, struggle through an act of contrition. Be assured I shall never do that.

  I want to give him a present and have painted a water-colour of his garden for him. It is not a painting of which I am particularly proud, for I am not a landscape artist. It is an impressionistic daub of only twenty by fifteen centimetres, and I am not skilled at imprecisions. I prefer meticulous detail, as in a butterfly’s wing or the rifling of a barrel. But then his little patch of tranquillity is hardly a landscape.

  Seldom do I ever admit to emotion, having no room for it in my life. When emotion enters the soul, reason does a runner. And reason is my saviour. Yet I should be a liar if I were to say there were no tears mixed with the colours of that picture.

  I have never been adept with wood unless it is the carving of it into the smooth firmness of a stock. It takes me three attempts to get the mitred corners of the frame to fit. Metal is so much more obedient, so much more forgiving. It is hard and whispers all the time one is working it. Every rasp of the file says, ‘Go easy, go easy.’ Eventually, though, the surround is done and I mount the painting. It looks well from a few metres away. He will be pleased with it.

  To accompany this tiny gift, I write a letter. That this is unusual for me is something of an understatement: apart from keeping contacts of a business nature, I am not a correspondent. Yet I feel a need to communicate with Father Benedetto.

  I use Italian notepaper, the variety which bears no watermark and can be purchased cheaply in the market. It is made in the back-streets of Naples from recycled newspaper and rags and is not white but yellowish for no bleaching chlorine has been passed through it.

  To write this letter, I go up to the loggia and sit at the table with the sun cutting a bow across the floor, the overhead panorama cast in deep shadow. The valley and mountains are swimming in the liquid air of midday, the pinnacles of the row of poplars in the Parco della Resistenza dell’ 8 Settembre shimmering as if being tugged by a manic wind, but there is not the least breeze in this torrid hour.

  I sit facing the valley. The castle on its rock is barely perceivable. I look in its general direction and think of the man astride his girl in the ruin under the sweet chestnut, his loins coyly hidden by the folds of her fallen skirt. I begin to write. This will not be a long letter. I begin Dear Father and pause.

  This will not be a confession. I have nothing to confess.

  If one does not believe one has sinned, one cannot be remorseful. I have not sinned. I have stolen nothing since I last went to confession: that was when I set up in my profession and ceased fencing. I have not been adulterous: all my liaisons have been with single, willing ladies and, if my sex has occurred out of wedlock, I do not consider myself sinful on this account. We live in the end of the twentieth century. I have studiedly avoided taking the Christian god’s name in vain. I have respect for the religions of others: after all, I have worked for the cause of several—Islam, Christianity, Communism. I have no intention of insulting or demeaning the beliefs of my fellow man. Nothing can be gained thereby save controversy and the dubious satisfaction of insult.

  I admit I have lied. More accurately, I have told untruths. I have been economical with the truth in the very best traditions of those who govern us. These lies of mine have never done harm, have always protected me at no expense to others and are, therefore, not sins. If they are such, and there is a god, I shall be prepared to answer my case in person when we meet. I shall take a good book to read—say War and Peace or Gone With the Wind or Doctor Zhivago—for the queue for this category of sinner will be very long and, knowing the arrogance of the Christian church, will be headed by cardinals, bishops, papal nuncios and not a few Popes themselves.

  But what of the murders, you are thinking. There have been no murders. There have been assassinations, to most of which I have been a party before the fact. But what of Ingrid and the Scandinavians? What of the mechanic and his lady-friend? What of them? These were not murders but acts of expediency: I no more murdered them than the terrier does the rat.

  At no time have I been associated with the bombing of a jet airliner full of innocents. I have molested no children, seduced no young boys, raped no women, strangled and burned no vagabonds. I have sold not one grain of cocaine, heroin, crack, uppers nor downers. I have rigged not one share issue, have taken part in no insider dealing at the Bourse or in the Stock Exchange: the FT and the Nikkei indexes have never been affected by me—not for my own advantage, anyway: I admit two of my assassinations caused the rate to fluctuate but that was because the death of the targets had been misinterpreted by the marketeers who were loath to lose a buck before going to the state funeral. No one has lost his job because of me, save a few bodyguards and they soon found alternative employment.

  Assassination is not murder. The butcher does not murder lambs: he kills them for meat. It is a part of the process of living and dying. Just so am I part of the same process. I am like the veterinarian who goes forth from his surgery armed with needle and syringe or captive bolt gun. He shoots the horse which has shattered its leg, he injects the old dog dying in pain and indignity.

  A high court judge in all his finery and black cap is no different from me. There is no trial, I grant you, where assassination is concerned. Yet it is a waste of time and money, save to the establishment and the law profession, the builders of prisons and court houses, to hold a trial on a man known unequivocally to be guilty of his crimes. And no assassin has a target that is not already proven beyond all reasonable doubt to be guilty. The president with the unnumbered bank accounts in Zurich, the drug manufacturer with his luxurious hacienda in the jungles, the bishop with his palace near the slums, the prime minister with the misery and poverty of thousands in his responsibility. Or hers. A trial would be superfluous. The crimes are there for all to see. The assassin is merely doing the job of justice.

  So I have nothing to confess and my letter is not a confession.

  The sun has shifted onto the corner of the paper. I move the table into the shadow and begin to write.

  Dear Father B.,

  I am writing to drop you a few lines with this gift. I hope it reminds you of our pleasant idling away of the sunlit hours.

  I fear I may be leaving the town shortly. I am not sure for how long I might be gone. This means, for the time being, we shall not be able to argue like the old men we are, with a bottle of armagnac between us and the peaches falling softly from the tree.

  I pause and read my words through. Between the lines I see my desire to remain, to return.

  Over the time I have lived in your town, I have felt a happiness, an inner joy perhaps, experienced nowhere else. Where I go from here I shall try to take the essence of it with me. There is a distinct serenity here in the mountains which I have grown to love and cherish. But despite our talks, and my living in the centre of this bustling, hustling little mountain town, I am by nature a lonesome man, hermetic and ascetic. This may surprise you and I would understand that.

  When I am gone, do not, I beg of you, seek for me. Do not pray for me. You would be wasting precious time. I shall be all right and, I hope, beyond the need for divine intervention.

  You know of me only by my nickname. But now . . . I was never really interested in entomology and give you a name to think of me by.

  Your friend,

  Edmund.

  I seal the letter into a cheap, matching envelope and tape it to the wooden board backing of the picture frame. This I wrap in tough cardboard and brown paper, tying it round with twine. Signora Prasca can take it to the priest when he returns.

  It was early in the afternoon, the sun was high and not shining into the room. Clara lay back on the sheets and stretched. Our clothes were in a tangled heap on one of the chairs. The wine
glasses on the bedside table were wet with condensation and the window was wide open. This did not bother Clara: she was quite audacious when it came to sex. It bothered me. The shadow-dweller might have found this room out and inveigled his way into the building opposite: but the bed was out of sight from the window.

  I leaned over to my glass and sipped the wine. It seemed drier after our love-making.

  ‘Will you stay all afternoon, Edmund?’

  It took me a second to reply: I was momentarily thrown by the name then remembered.

  ‘Yes. I have no other work to do.’

  ‘And tonight?’

  ‘Tonight I have work.’

  ‘Artists should paint by daytime. They need the sunlight. It is not good to paint when the electric light is on.’

  ‘Generally, that is true. But miniatures are different. I use a magnifying glass for much of the work.’

  ‘A mag-nif-y-ing glass,’ she repeated, testing the word. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Like a . . .’

  I could not explain. It is such an ordinary object it defies description. And I could not help thinking how wonderful it was to be talking of such nonsense in a bed with Clara in the middle of a hot, Italian day.

  ‘It makes things bigger to look at. Through a lens.’

  ‘Ah!’ she laughed. ‘Lente—d’ingrandimento.’

  We fell silent then and she closed her eyes. I gazed upon her, lying in the reflected sunlight which softened every curve of her body. Her hair was ruffled on the pillow and her brow damp from cooling perspiration.

  ‘Will you stay?’ she asked suddenly, her eyes wide.

  ‘I have said I will.’

  ‘For all times.’

  ‘I should like to,’ I answered and it was the truth.

  ‘But will you . . .’

  ‘I cannot tell. From time to time I have to go away. Sell my work. Get other commissions.’

  ‘But will you return? All times?’

  ‘Yes. I shall always return.’

  There was nothing else I could say.

  ‘That is good,’ she said and closed her eyes again. ‘I do not want you to be lost. Ever.’

  Her hand reached out and rested on my thigh. It was not a sexual touch but one of the familiarities of love. She was too loving, too innocent, too naïvely artful to put pressure on me yet she knew, as I did, this was her way to try and make me stay in the mountains, in the town, in her life. Yet her pretty guile was to no effect. She is wrong for I am already lost. I have, I suppose, always been lost and nothing will change.

  Tonight, I am the hunter. The lamb has turned from the slaughter and shrugged on the wolfskin. To draw out my quarry, I have taken a few steps to confuse him, maybe to ensnare him.

  Firstly, I have booked my car into Alfonso’s garage for a tune-up. He will do the work as soon as he arrives in the morning, but I have spun him a line by saying I shall be away so he has agreed to keep the car overnight. This should have the shadow-dweller out in the open, searching for it.

  Secondly, I have sat for some time at one of the bars in the Corso Federico II, making myself prominent, reading a paper. Twice, I have felt his presence but he has not hung about.

  Thirdly, I have walked through the town window-shopping. He has followed me, from time to time, keeping an eye on me. I have made him feel he has me on edge by looking round just a little too obviously, but never in his direction.

  I have discovered the blue Peugeot, too. It was cleverly parked behind a bank of rubbish containers in a residential street on the outskirts of the town. It has had two new tyres fitted to it. I am sure he does not know I have found the whereabouts of his vehicle.

  It would have been child’s-play to plant a bomb in it, wired perhaps to the reversing light. Yet I want to see this man, get close to him, know him for what he is. So now I am hunting him.

  He is at present dining in a restaurant down a narrow street off the Via Roviano. He has been in there for nearly an hour and I expect him to reappear soon. A lone diner always eats more quickly than one with a companion but I know the service in the restaurant to be on the slow side.

  It is now I who am dwelling in the shadows, standing at the entrance to an alleyway not wide enough to accommodate a bicycle. It is not a cold night, but I am wearing a dark brown suit. I might pass for a businessman out canvassing for a whore were it not for the fact that I am wearing high-laced jogging boots, not leather shoes. They are new: I bought them this afternoon in the course of my window-peering circuit. They are navy blue with white bands which I have darkened with polish.

  No one has noticed me. It is not unusual to see people standing in the shadows as I am. There are heroin addicts in the town and their pushers inhabit the alleys.

  He has come out of the restaurant and is looking up and down the street. Satisfied, he is setting off towards the Via Roviano. I am on his tail.

  Stalking is the sport of men. It requires patience, skill, tact, physical and mental tension and a degree of risk. I enjoy it. Perhaps I should have been the commissioner of guns, not the artist of them.

  He is making for the street where the Citroën was parked. He is so confident he does not look round, does not prime his senses to discover my existence. He thinks he has me where he wants me, cautious as a rabbit a long way from its warren.

  He rounds the corner and abruptly stops. He has seen a Fiat Uno in the space previously occupied by my motor. He looks about, not to see if I am there but to see if the car has shifted to another place.

  For a moment, he thinks. Then he sets off at a brisk pace with me on his trail.

  We are doing a tour of all the streets in which I have parked the Citroën. But we draw a blank. He enters a bar and orders a coffee which I see him drinking standing at the counter. He pays and leaves, turns left and walks purposefully down the street. I follow.

  Damn the man! He is going towards Alfonso’s garage. He must have guessed. Sure enough, he is standing outside the garage, looking up and down the street. He does not see the Citroën. Now he is crouching to peer through the hinges of the old steel shutters that close the garage. Inside, a light has been left on to deter burglars. It bars his face briefly. He stands up. I can sense the grin of smug satisfaction on his face.

  The street is empty. It is nearly eleven o’clock and the citizens of the town are drawing to their beds. From a window overhead, I can hear the soundtrack of a late night film on television. It is a romantic film, the violins muffled and thin with sorrow. From somewhere down the street comes the faint sound of jazz.

  The shadow-dweller is standing under a street lamp which hangs from an ancient bracket on the wall of a building. He is pondering his next move or trying to ascertain what mine might be.

  He will soon find out. The time has come.

  I take the Walther out of my pocket and, holding it behind my back, cock it. It clicks. He does not hear this. I would, in his position. He is not a fully qualified expert.

  I step out from the shadows and start to walk quickly towards him. My right arm hangs by my side as if the pistol weighs heavily in the hand. It does not. I hardly feel it. It is an extension of my body, like a sixth and deadly finger. My left arm swings.

  He does not hear me. My jogging shoes are silent. I have about fifty metres to cover. He is looking at the garage door as if he might wish it open.

  I raise my right hand. The gun is pointing at him. Thirty metres. I feel my finger take up the slack of the trigger. Twenty metres.

  A car turns into the street behind me, its headlights on beam. I drop my right arm, thrusting the Walther into my pocket. The shadow-dweller looks my way, almost casually. He sees me outlined by the halogen beams. For the merest of moments, I see his eyes, wide open and shocked. Then he is gone. I do not see where. There is no alleyway opposite Alfonso’s workshop, no deep doorway, no parked vehicles close by. The car headlights are illuminating the whole street as if it were a film set. He has disappeared.

  An invisible man is worse t
han a shadow-dweller. I double back quickly and run silently for several streets. As I go, I curse him and the driver of the car and I curse myself. Each oath is muttered in time with my breathing.

  Today the regulars are at the Bar Conca d’Oro, sitting at the tables inside. Those outside are on the pavement: the Fiat drivers and moped riders have beaten the bar owner to the space under the trees. I stand and watch.

  One of the tables is occupied by a group of English tourists. The father is the proud owner of a brand new camcorder: the aluminium carrying case with a navy blue webbing strap lies on the ground by his foot. His shoe is resting on the strap so that, should any street urchin grab at it, he will instantly know of the attempted theft: he is abroad where the streets teem with petty criminals and forgets the burglaries in his own home town.

  I idly ponder the possibility of concealing an automatic weapon within a camcorder. It should be feasible. The size is convenient. The little jutting microphone could easily disguise a barrel, the camera itself be used as the sighting device. Indeed, it would be the ultimate tool of the assassin if it could be totally silenced: the operator could not only carry out the hit but film the whole action for future replay, much as athletes play back videotape of their races to judge, criticise and improve their performance. It is a few moments before I realise such problems are no longer mine.

  I regret never having taken an apprentice. What I could have taught him. Or her. With my retirement, a facet of technology’s folk-craft dies.

  The tourist wife is hot and flustered. Her blouse is adhering to her back, her hair verging on the untidy. She has been following her husband all morning, filming this church and that market, this street and that view. Behind her have followed their two children, a boy of about twelve and a girl a few years younger. Both are fed up. They each have an ice cream which they are devouring with avidity, yet they are still jaded with the day. It is hot. They have not been to the seaside, only to the museum to see the skeleton of the ichthyosaurus and to the Parco della Resistenza dell’ 8 Settembre to view the vista of the valley. They are arguing as to how a marine dinosaur could have been found halfway up a mountain.